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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453180">See What You Can Stand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cureelliott/pseuds/cureelliott'>cureelliott</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood &amp; Manga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Forced Cohabitation, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:43:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>53,905</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453180</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cureelliott/pseuds/cureelliott</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After suffering a grievous injury and breaking his automail, Ed can't live alone. With Alphonse away in Xing, Roy steps up to look after Ed as he recovers. How will living together affect their relationship and the feelings they've long since ignored?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edward Elric/Roy Mustang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>297</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Content warning for: medical situations, loss of (automail) limbs, anxiety. I don't think the descriptions of violence or medical situations is especially graphic, but read at your own risk if those are troubling for you. I've also marked this fic as mature in anticipation of some spicy content later on.  </p><p>I've never broken a limb, so there are aspects of this fic that may be medically unrealistic -- that being said, I largely based Ed's experiences on my own with cancer and related physical rehab. The details may be inaccurate but the suffering isn't (lol) </p><p>This is my first fic in a really long time and I'm really pouring my heart and soul into it so I hope you enjoy it. I'm hoping to update pretty regularly, so you can expect the second chapter probably a week from now. Please enjoy and leave a comment if you like!! </p><p>I also took a page out of the renowned Tierfal's playbook and put this story in a universe where Ed keeps his automail arm and his alchemy for That's Just How I Like It reasons. </p><p>Title is taken from Elliott Smith's Pitseleh (which is a Roy/Ed mood if you ask me)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The last thing Ed thinks before he blacks out is, <em>well fuck</em>.  </p><p>--</p><p>Coming to is like being in a theatre as the house lights come back up. The lights are soft but persistent and his eyes are slow to adjust. Plays are sort of like dreams you have with strangers, aren’t they? Coming to is also like waking into a dream, where there are objects and people you’ve seen before but can’t recognize or speak the names of at first. He tries to open his mouth, ask what happened, but it’s like his tongue is too heavy and his lips are cemented shut. </p><p>Minute and endless moments provide him with enough clarity to recognize Roy, standing at the foot of his bed talking to a scrub clad doctor. Roy’s face is hard and he’s doing that thing where he scowls to signal how intently he’s listening. He looks constipated and Ed wishes he could find the wherewithal to tell him as much. <em>You look constipated, you stupid bastard, lighten up. </em></p><p>Al isn’t here, which Ed knows without looking for him, but can’t remember why. </p><p>It’s hard to hold his neck up just to watch Roy pull shitty faces at a healthcare professional, so his chin drops and that’s when he sees it. Blankets are draped over his middle but his legs are exposed. His leg. His automail is missing and the port left behind is damaged beyond recognition. It’s misshapen, like it’s been flattened, and he can see cracks and fissures even from this angle. There are pieces missing and beneath is just sickeningly red. Like he’s been cracked open and his cherry center is oozing out. There are bandages, most stained a mottled red, but the end of the port is exposed to the open air. His right leg is similarly wrapped beneath bolted braces affixed to his knee and ankle. His vision begins to tunnel. </p><p>He must make a noise, because suddenly the doctor and Roy are much closer. The doctor is adjusting the intravenous drip feeding into Ed’s arm and Roy is on his other side, holding his shoulder to haul Ed back into the bed though Ed doesn’t feel like he’s struggling. </p><p>“Ed, Ed, just relax, relax,” Roy is saying, but Ed can’t place his tone. Is he angry? Is he afraid? His mouth is so close to Ed’s ear it sounds like he’s speaking from inside the canal. </p><p>His tunnelling vision begins to blot out, edging into darkness. </p><p>-- </p><p>“Are you sure you’ll be alright by yourself, Brother?” Al asks, folding a sweater that is more cat hair than wool into his suitcase. </p><p>“For the ten millionth time, Al, I’ll be fine. I’ve managed to keep myself alive for several months at a time without your direct supervision, you know.” </p><p>“Yes, well, but that was when you had at least two responsible adults within ten feet of you at all times.” </p><p>“Does a responsible adult move through life in such a way that at one point he becomes a lion chimera man? They don’t revoke your adult licence for that?” </p><p>“Brother.” Al has his hands on his hips, and even now three years after he got those hands and hips back the novelty hasn't worn off. Ed can’t imagine a time when it won’t be novel to watch Al do things with his body. To watch his face fold into a disapproving frown, or to hear the way his tongue hits his teeth a little harder on the ‘ther’ when he’s trying to make a point.</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Ed sighs as he sits up from his sprawl on Al’s bed, “I promise to eat three square <em>meals</em>, not just desserts, a day and brush my teeth at least fifty percent of the time. Satisfied?” </p><p>“About fifty percent satisfied.” The transition from frown to pout is subtle, and it mostly involves Al pursing his lips.</p><p>“Please don’t become so fixated on my oral hygiene that you can’t learn the infinite and infinitesimal secrets of alkahestry.” </p><p>“But what if it sparks a brainwave about dentistry applications... you know, if you used very small throwing points, the remote activation could actually--” </p><p>“Alright there, genius boy, let’s get you to <em>complete</em> your tour of all Xing has to offer your big brilliant brain before you go throwing knives at my cavities.” The pout begins to morph into genuine concern, “Not that I have any.” </p><p>Al fusses with a pair of balled up socks he’s stuffing into his suitcase and Ed can see the worry line that’s forming between his eyebrows. Ed watches him in companionable silence as he folds more clothes and tucks the odd book into his bag. </p><p>“Don’t forget the Xingese dictionary. I know you’re functionally fluent but I’m sure Win will have to use the bathroom when you aren’t around to translate and trigger some kind of international incident or accidentally propose to a prince or something.” </p><p>The tour will take at least five months. Winry and Al are going to journey to the capital to meet Ling and Mei, who will then take them on an extensive tour of the provinces and their universities. It’s a cross section of interests: Ling wants to show off his connections to Amestris and bolster clan cohesion by bringing Mei along, Al wants to learn more about alkahestry and its applications, Winry wants to explore what automail exists in the region and make some international connections for her business, and Mei wants to steal Ed’s brother from him -- maybe something else too, it’s not important. </p><p> “Ling will be there too, and Mei, you know. I’m sure they’d protect her from any wandering princes looking to make an Amesterian country girl their princess. But, your point still has merit.” He packs the dictionary. “It’s going to be so strange, essentially having a reunion without you. Are you sure you won’t come?” He’s pouting now, but Ed’s been building up his immunity to the Elric puppy eyes. He can say no at least two percent of the time now. </p><p>“Sorry, kiddo. Somebody has to pay the rent. And I’ve got those night classes to teach.” Ed doesn’t say the real reason -- that Al deserves to live and learn independently from Ed, that he should see his friends and go on adventures without always looking over his shoulder to make sure Ed is following along. </p><p>“Brother.” Al says, again, but with enough concern and vulnerability that Ed’s shoulders slump and his mouth crumples into what he hopes is a comforting smile. It’s not about his oral hygiene, or spending time with their mutual friends, it’s about how much they both know Ed will miss Al every second of every day until he sees him step off the train again with his big goofy smile and his eager waving -- like Ed couldn’t pick him out of a crowd while wearing a blindfold. But if Ed says that, says I’ll miss you, Al won’t go. And he should go. He deserves to go. </p><p>“Alright. I’ll brush my teeth seventy five percent of the time. And I’ll remember to take the trash out. But that’s my final offer. Now stop worrying, what’s the worst that could happen?” </p><p>-- </p><p>If anyone ever asked him, Ed would never be able to give a definitive answer as to why he chose to settle down in Central. It wasn’t any one thing -- it was how quiet Resembool got; it was seeing the same people all the time who had one dimensional expectations of him being Trisha Elric’s rambunctious know-it-all son forever; it was how much he missed that one kebab place and the donut shop near the station; it was a longing for movement and anonymity and discovery and familiarity that he couldn’t find in a sleepy farm town. Every so often he would get a call from Gracia or Riza, asking how he was and if they were going to visit any time soon. Riza alluded veiledly to how work-adverse Roy was becoming now that there wasn’t a bloodless coup on the horizon and Gracia talked about how big Elicia was getting. And it was nice, so nice, to hear from them, but it was like parts of his life, people he cared about, were moving forward while he was standing still. So he talked to Al, and then he talked to the university, and they found a little shithole apartment and that was it. </p><p>The university fell all over itself to give him tenure, so he taught a little and did research. And then two years went by, just living like that with no speed or direction. It was peaceful, but interesting. </p><p>Ed isn’t a soldier anymore, hasn’t been since The Promised Day, if he ever was at all. He certainly never was in spirit. But every so often, he gets a call from Roy asking if he’s got some time and he always does. Because he knows that if Roy is calling him, it’s important. </p><p>It’s after one such phone call that Ed finds himself chasing down a rogue alchemist who Roy suspects has been performing human transmutation in order to procure organs for the black market. Ed suspects he must’ve been a track star in school because they’ve been chasing him through this series of abandoned warehouses and defunct construction sites for the better part of two hours and the guy hasn’t shown any signs of fatigue. He’d lost Breda and Havoc after the seventh or eighth sharp turn but he’s sure they’re not too far off. </p><p>The half built apartment complex that Ed sneaks through has poor visibility and less daylight access than is really ideal. Tarps hang loose and obscure the hallways. Most of the windows have been boarded up and there’s concrete dust and broken glass covering all the surfaces. Rats are skitter around, which is fucking creepy as hell, but it’s still nowhere near the scariest abandoned building Ed’s ever been in. </p><p>He hears a series of dashing, uneven footsteps down the corridor and quickens his own quiet tread toward them. He pulls his handgun out of its holster, infinitely more comfortable wielding it now that he’s been certified under the Lieutenant Hawkeye School of Nonlethal Marksmanship. It had taken a lot of the Lieutenant's coaching for Ed to concede that even just threatening someone with a gun took a lot less effort and far fewer variables than trying to detain them with alchemy. He still isn’t especially fond of it, but it’s a convenient shorthand. </p><p>As he approaches, he can hear laboured breaths and unmasked shuffling. Maybe the bastard is finally getting rundown. He holds his breath, counts down from five and then swings around the open doorway. </p><p>“Hands in the air, Ibbott,” He barks, leveling his firearm squarely-- </p><p>At a terrified child, who stares at him with one huge cloudy eye. The other is obscured behind a filthy bandage. She raises her hands, trembling. </p><p>Ed holsters his weapon and drops down to a crouch. </p><p>“Hey, I’m uh, sorry,” he says, as softly as he can manage while making sure she can hear him “My name’s Ed.” He takes his eyes off her to survey the room. Windows are boarded up and the left side of the floor is incomplete, giving way to exposed beams and waterlogged insulation.</p><p>The girl is crouched four feet from Ed, cowering behind a dusty cement mixer. She’s trembling. Her clothes are ragged and filthy and Ed can see places where they have stained in particular bloody lines -- from beneath, like she’d bled up through them. His jaw tightens and he carefully folds his rage up and tucks it into a corner to unleash later. </p><p>He summons a soft voice, “What’s your name?” </p><p>The girl continues to stare at him, her hands still held aloft and quaking. Her arms are so thin. </p><p>He waits long, silent moments and begins to think she might not answer him when she finally whispers. </p><p>“Melanie.”  </p><p>He smiles at her, “Hi, Melanie. It’s nice to meet you. What do you say we get out of here? It’s kinda scary in here, right?” Her eye darts around nervously, tracking the shadowed corners of the room. </p><p>“He’s here,” she whispers, fresh tears beginning to well in her eye. </p><p>Ed shuffles forward slowly, his worn dress shoes kicking up clouds of grimy dust and concrete. He gets a couple feet closer to her.</p><p>“I know, but so are my friends. And they’re gonna catch him and then he won’t be able to hurt you anymore. Does that sound good?” </p><p>Now that he's closer to her, he can see she’s favouring one knee and protecting the other. There’s fresh blood staining her filthy linen dress. </p><p>“Can you walk?” he asks, reaching up to touch her arms and slowly guide them down. </p><p>“Yes,” she says, but Ed has his doubts. </p><p>“Let’s get up, okay?” He stands properly and watches her as she slowly rises to her feet. He can see now that there’s blood dripping down her leg. She shuffles forward, but her injured leg is nearly lame, dragging painfully in the grime. The bottoms of her shoes are well beyond worn. She’s exhausted and pushing forward on adrenaline. She’s a fighter, for sure, but if they had to run... </p><p>“Melanie, I’m going to have to carry you, okay?” he says, holding her gaze with his own. He tries to pack as much certainty and determination into his expression as he can “I know you’re scared, but I promise if I carry you, we can get out of here a lot faster, okay?” </p><p>Melanie looks uncertain, but nods all the same. </p><p>“Okay, that’s great, you’re a real pal Melanie,” Ed says and carefully picks her up. She seems to be older than Elicia, but she’s so much lighter that Ed is scared of breaking her. He secures her against his hip, his automail arm resting across her back. She clings to his jacket, her little hands fisting in the fabric. </p><p>“That’s great, Melaine, you’re doing great,” he says, offering her another smile which she answers with a cautious nod. </p><p>“I’m going to have to hold my gun, okay?” She nods again. </p><p>Back in the hallway, Ed has his firearm out again and he traces his steps back down the corridor towards the stairwell. He moves slowly and listens. Melanie is doing her very best to be absolutely silent, but her little lungs wheeze with each exhale. They make it to the head of the stairwell when Ed spots a set of boot prints in the detritus. </p><p>Ed runs through several scenarios as he integrates this information. Ibbott is here, recently too or he would have seen the boot prints on his way up. He probably knows Ed found Melanie, which he won’t be happy about. Ed could leave with Melanie now and be absolutely certain she’s safe, but Ibbott will get away and if there are any other survivors he’ll kill them before Team Mustang can find them. He could leave Melanie here, but Ibbott could double back and snap her up. He could tell her how to leave the building, but the same thing could happen. No, if Ed wanted to catch him, he was going to have to bring her with him. He looks down at Melaine where she’s tucked under his automail arm. She’s still trembling, but the haze in her eye seems to dissipate. She really is a fighter. How many kids couldn’t fight? How many are still fighting?</p><p>“If I tell you to run,” he says to her very quietly, “I want you to come back here, and go down these stairs. Do you think you can do that?” </p><p>She looks up at him and nods solemnly. </p><p>“Okay. You’re doing great, kid.” </p><p>Together, they follow the dusty boot treads further down the corridor. Melanie has synced her breathing to his and is doing her best to muffle her tiny weeze. He can feel her heart slamming in her chest, even through their clothes. </p><p>To their right there’s the sound of tin falling from a height -- like a bucket hitting concrete. Ed turns towards it quickly and Melanie shudders with a flinch, but doesn’t make a sound. He shores up his hold on her and moves steadily toward the sound. He draws his weapon up and sweeps into the room. It’s dark and the far side of the room opens into another incomplete floor. Exposed steel beams protrude out over a gap several stories up. A short distance from the doorway they’d come through, Ed spots the dropped bucket. </p><p>A rat skitters out from behind it. </p><p>His shoulders drop as he relaxes, sucking his teeth in irritation. He takes his finger off the trigger. Maybe he should just give it up, get them both out of here and let the lieutenants continue the search. If they regroup--- </p><p>“Mister Ed!” Melanie screeches, right into Ed’s ear. He turns and Ibbott is there, swinging a cutlass down at them from behind. Ed leaps back, toward the end of the floor as Ibbott comes hurtling toward them again. Melanie shrieks and Ed raises his gun again, but Ibbott is unencumbered and faster, catching him off balance. The edge of the cutlass snags the barrel of his weapon and slams it out of his hand. </p><p>Ed edges further back. There are only a few short feet between them and the drop and Ibbott is moving steadily forward. The gleam in Ibbott’s eye says he thinks he’s got them. That he’ll be able to brag for the rest of his life about how he got the drop on the Fullmetal Alchemist. He’s grinning. Ed loves it when they start to gloat before they’ve actually done the deed, it’s like they forget who they’re dealing with. </p><p>Very carefully, Ed puts Melanie down and crowds her back behind him, keeping his automail arm in front of her. </p><p>“Think about this, Ibbott. Mustang is on to you and if you kill me, he’ll turn you to ash himself.” Ed says, matching his grin. “If you turn tail and run now, maybe he’ll let your ass rot in prison.” </p><p>Ibbott sneers, “If I can kill the Fullmetal Alchemist, what threat is the impotent Flame Alchemist?” </p><p><em>Impotent</em>, that’s a good one. It’s hard not to laugh. He’ll have to get Breda to include it in his report later. Behind them, the metal beam is wide enough for Melanie to stand on and Ed moves in slow inching steps to guide her backwards onto it. She squeaks and Ed knows she must be looking down into the veritable drop below them. </p><p>“Hold on to me,” he whispers to her, “As tight as you can.” Slowly, keeping his eyes on Ibbott, he lowers himself into a crouch and does his best defeated impression. Melanie’s hands fist in Ed’s jacket as his shoulders become level with hers. He raises his hands, a gesture for mercy. </p><p>“Oh come on, Ibbott, does it really need to be all that?” He says, putting on a showy pleading tone, “Can’t we work something out?” </p><p>Ibbott laughs, a venomous hyena cackle, “Beg, and I’ll make it quick.” He brandishes his cutlass again and takes another step forward. </p><p>“Yeah, uh, that’s pretty un-fucking-likely.” Ed claps his hands together and slams them on the beam below them, pulling a knitted iron cable out of the surface. With the cable in one hand, he covers Melanie’s with the other.  </p><p>“Really tight okay?” he says to her and he barely hears her quaking affirmative before he leaps into the darkness. He’ll drop them down to the exposed floor below and find another way out. He hears Ibbott shout with rage above them and he’s sure the bastard is watching them disappear before his eyes. He half expects the stupid fuck to try to cut the cable, but it won’t work, the tensile weave is too strong. </p><p>What he doesn’t expect is the bright blue crackle of alchemy above them followed by the roar of cracking metal. He looks up just in time to see it -- the beams have been transmuted into a series of javelins. But the idiot used too much of the iron and support of the floor they’d just been standing on is compromised. The weakened beams begin to snap and the floorboards they support are coming down with them. </p><p>The cable goes slack in Ed’s hand and now they’re free falling. Melanie shrieks again and Ed lets go of the cable in favour of grabbing her wrists. He hauls her over his shoulder and leans into the fall, cradling her against his chest with his flesh arm closest to her and his automail one over that to protect her from the quickly following debris. </p><p>There’s maybe 30 feet between them and whatever is on the ground. He puts his automail leg further back as they fall, trying to brace himself for the inevitable crack and shatter of the limb. If he can just hit the ground and roll -- get them out of the path of the javelins, they could make it out of this. He’s trying to do the math in his head -- how fast are they falling? How aerodynamic are the steel spears? How quickly is the other wreckage hurtling toward them behind that? </p><p>He can make it. If he’s fast enough, he can save her. </p><p>Hitting the ground knocks the air out of his lungs, even though his automail hits the ground first. The joints shatter on impact, of course, but he’s not dead so Winry isn’t allowed to be mad. The feedback sets the nerves in his left leg on fire for a brain numbing instant, but there isn’t time to process the pain. Melanie is whimpering, so she’s alive too. He forces himself over, struggling to force air back into his lungs. <em>Move move move</em>. The first javelin pierces the ground immediately beside them with a shunk of finality, where Ed’s back had been milliseconds before. <em>Yeah, come on, keep moving</em>. He holds Melanie tight against himself and drags them a few more inches.</p><p>The next javelin pins him through the flesh stump of his left leg, just above the automail port. He screams, pulling against it, but it’s too late -- the javelin was moving too fast, the hard packed earth beneath them holds it in place. He won’t have time to pull it out or even transmute it loose. The cascading rush of steel and shattered wood comes up behind them too fast. What he can do, the only thing he can do, is draw himself up on his flesh knee. The movement pulls another scream from him as he forces himself up the length javelin that’s impaled him. If he can create a little bit of space between the ground and his body, Melanie might survive. He looks over his shoulder and the wreckage is all the closer. </p><p>
  <em>Well fuck. </em>
</p><p>-- </p><p>When Ed wakes up for the second time, it’s more like waking up normally. He opens his eyes slowly and there the world is waiting for him, a beige and grey hospital room and dull blue blankets. </p><p>Roy is sitting with him, using a janky adjustable hospital bed table as a desk. He’s got his hand to his chin, contemplating some banal paperwork. He looks tired. Bags under his eyes, hair pushed back from his face like he’s been worrying his hand through it over and over. The corners of his eyes squeeze into a slight squint as he looks over each line on the page. He’s ditched his uniform jacket, Ed can see it draped over the back of the armchair in the corner along with a couple of hospital issue pillows and a blanket. Has he been sleeping here? </p><p>Sitting on a stack of manila folders is a paper coffee cup and Ed can smell that sludgy bitter blessing like it’s an ambrosia sent straight from heaven. He lifts his arm and it protests, a tremor shaking his elbow and pleading with him to abandon this selfish endeavour, but he manages to claim that delicious bean water for himself. The IV taped to his hand aches unpleasantly but he tries to ignore it. He hates that shit. At least he had already passed out when they stabbed him for it. </p><p>There’s a ruffle of paper as Roy lowers what’s in his hand to watch Ed pilfer his coffee. Could use a ton more sugar, but for once Ed isn’t fussed. </p><p>He lolls his head back against the cushions propping him up to smirk at Roy, “You look like shit.” </p><p>Roy gives him a stark look for a second or two, before his mouth curls into a smug smile, “I would have prissied up, if I had known you were going to finally put in an appearance.” </p><p>“I don’t think anyone’s ever accused you of not being prissy enough.” </p><p>Ed looks down at himself. The bolts and pins he remembered have been replaced with a heavy cast. The stump of his left leg is thoroughly bandaged, so he can’t see how bad the damage to the automail port might be. He’s got bandages done all up his flesh arm and the automail arm is lighter than it should be -- probably missing a vital bolt or screw. Winry’s going to skin him. </p><p>“The girl survived.,” Roy says, “She’s lucky you found her when you did, or she would have died of sepsis within the week.” </p><p>“Not if I didn’t get a building dropped on her first,” Ed mutters, though his shoulders drop with relief. At least she’s alive. </p><p>“Ibbott died in the collapse, so it’s not all bad news. And we found where he was keeping the other victims.” </p><p>Ed nods, “That’s good.” It was good. Could have gone better... he looks at Roy. Shouldn’t he be angrier?</p><p>“Why aren’t you reading me the riot act,” he says with a suspicious squint.</p><p>Roy raises his eyebrows at him and looks taken aback. “Would you like me to?” </p><p>“Not especially,” Ed scoffs, rolling his eyes and letting them linger on the ceiling, “Just figured I was out long enough for you to come up with new ways to tell me what a rash, impulsive piece of work I am.” </p><p>“I’m just glad you’re alive.” </p><p>Ed looks at him again, but Roy is inscrutable. He doesn’t get it, what’s the punchline? </p><p>When the joke isn’t forthcoming, Ed drops it. Roy can get one over on him every now and again if it lets him feel clever. </p><p>“When can I get out of here?” he says, leveraging his elbow up to replace Roy’s coffee cup where he’d found it. “I should probably head out to Rush Valley, pick up some temporary ‘mail ‘til Win gets back.” </p><p>There’s a pregnant pause between them, where Ed looks at Roy expectantly with his eyebrows raised and his mouth crumpled in a half-frown and Roy looks back at him with the gears turning just behind his eyes. </p><p>“Yes,” he says finally, “About that.” </p><p>-- </p><p>Roy gets the call from Jean just before five. He’s almost done initaling the documents Riza had been glowering at when he suggested they leave the office early for once. One of these days, she’ll take him up on it and then they can spend their evening off ice skating in hell. </p><p>The look Riza gives him now watching him through the open door, while he listens to Jean speak around panting breaths and asks him short curt questions, is much kinder. She gets up to bring the car around before Roy is even off the phone. </p><p>She then does him the service of expressing more visible grief that he can allow himself as they speak to Ed’s surgeon. She covers her mouth to muffle the gasp that might as well be torn from both of their lungs. </p><p>“The perforations missed his major organs, thankfully. He won’t need any transplants, though he will require several transfusions. There’s a comminuted fracture that has splintered his femur.” The stern looking woman clips an X-ray on to the lightscreen. Roy looks at the obvious offence -- shards of bone splintering from smooth grey slopes. There are at least four discrete pieces that Roy can see. </p><p>“These pieces are too small for direct reconstruction.” She says, pointing to several smaller flecks in the area “We’ll have to install a rod and a plate, here and here.” She indicates the areas and then clips up another X-ray. She doesn’t need to tell him that it is of Ed’s other leg -- or at least what’s left of it. </p><p>“This... well. We’re at a loss. The automail port was crushed in such a way that there’s no saving it. Parts of the port shattered and have been lodged into his connective tissue and muscles. There’s a chance that pieces of shrapnel have come into contact with his bone and he’s at serious risk of infection. It’s difficult to see because the automail compromises the quality of our image. We expect to find another fracture beyond these pieces.” She points at stark white shapes that begin to edge in around the curvatures of his bones. </p><p>Roy hasn’t been able to find words yet, but the surgeon is looking at him expectantly. </p><p>“We’ll need to remove most of the port. He won’t be able to have replacement surgery until he’s healed from the injury. I’m hesitant to even suggest using a temporary prosthetic because he could damage the bone and scar tissue as it heals.” She takes a slow breath, “That of course, is only relevant if he survives the next twelve hours. Can you contact his family?” </p><p>The doctor waits for his answer, but Roy is transfixed. He had always thought of the automail as a part of Ed. Something static, fixed, and just as real as any other limb. They made him whole. They flecked him just as silver as he was gold and declared to the world in no plainer terms that he was precious. Now the shards of his bounty were driven too deep; they could kill him. Limbs crafted in love by devoted hands made into so much shrapnel. Ed’s bones, outlined in soft greys on the screen before him, are not iron. He’s fallible. Fleeting. Finite. He could be lost.  </p><p>He hears Riza say, “His brother is out of the country and is unreachable. I will attempt to notify the Xingese palace, but they will never make it in time to...” </p><p>Now both women are looking at Roy, but Roy is trying to remember how to breathe. These X-rays are the most he’s seen of Ed since this morning. This morning when he grinned at him, called him a bastard and left his office, braid swinging behind him. And Roy, always silenced by Ed’s retreating back, was a coward who just let him go. </p><p>His voice comes back even if his mind still struggles to keep pace. </p><p>“Wait to notify the palace. Once Edward is out of surgery, we’ll be able to give Alphonse all the information. It will likely take several days to reach him,” he says curtly, shifting his gaze from the stark radiographs detailing all the places Ed has been broken to the surgeon. </p><p>“Do you need familial consent? They have a guardian in Resembool I can probably get on the phone for you.” </p><p>The surgeon flips through the chart file she’s holding, humming thoughtfully. </p><p>“No, sir. You’re listed here as chief medical proxy.” </p><p>Roy balks, “...I am.” </p><p>“You are. My team is already assembled in the theatre. A nurse can show you to the viewing area.” She looks between himself and Riza, “It won’t be pretty.” </p><p>--</p><p>Rehab is just as grueling and thankless as Ed remembers, but having a frame of reference doesn’t make it easier or any less painful. </p><p>Sweat is running into his eyes and he leans heavily on his automail arm as he tries to haul himself up into a sitting position from the ground. </p><p>“Don’t favour your right side so much. You won’t always be able to rely on the automail to do the work for you.” His therapist is a broad, well muscled person with thick curly hair. Ed grimaces up at them, shifting his weight onto his left arm. His elbow screams at him in protest and he’s inclined to agree -- neither of them want it to bear this responsibility. He gets himself up onto his elbows and grits his teeth, vocalizing the hateful pain that surges through his upper body as he pushes himself up and then over. He pants heavily, feeling the ache up his arm and down his thighs. </p><p>“Great job,” his therapist says, tossing him a towel. Ed barely has the energy to catch it, but manages somehow. He scrubs his face with it and takes a moment to catch his breath. They’ve been at this all morning and the pain is better than it was a week ago, but he’s not satisfied. He wants to be able to tell Al he’s in top form when he finally manages to call. </p><p>Riza had left word for him at the palace, but it’s difficult to get urgent messages through the mountain ranges he and Win are touring, so he might not even know Ed’s in the hospital yet. </p><p>He lets the towel drop from his face and into his lap and his gaze falls on the observation window. Roy is there, watching him. He’s in civilian clothes, unbuttoned peacoat and a knitted scarf. Isn’t that the one Al made him for Yuletide last year? Ed raises his flesh hand in a quick wave, which Roy returns. </p><p>“Boyfriend?” His therapist asks, offering Ed a hand up off the mat they’d been working on. </p><p>“Stalker,” Ed says, “Don’t know why he’s so obsessed with me.” He groans aloud as he pushes the limits of his knee’s motility within the confines of the brace as they get him up on his feet. </p><p>“Maybe it’s your shredded abs,” they offer, clapping Ed firmly on his metal shoulder. </p><p>“Oh, they’re shredded alright.” He pulls the bottom of his scrubs up to flash Olde Impale-y, now topped with a new series of healing stitches. They snicker at him. </p><p>“Good job today. I could probably clear you for supervised home release and outpatient therapy, you know.” </p><p>“Nobody at home to supervise me,” Ed says, not hiding his irritation. He could manage the apartment by himself -- takeout delivery exists and they don’t even have any stairs, but every time he argues with his doctor about it she stonewalls him and then comments on the importance of calcium in the body’s reconstruction and healing process and he spends the next couple hours sulking. </p><p>“Nobody you could stay with?” </p><p>“I’m more of a lone wolf type. Need my space.” He takes the crutches as they hand them to him. </p><p>“Tell that to your stalker.” They look at something behind Ed. “Better get your restraining order ready, he’s looking pretty eager.” </p><p>Ed looks back at Roy, who is still watching from the observation area. He doesn’t look any different than usual. Their eyes meet, and Ed hums mildly. He looks away.</p><p> “Like I said, he’s obsessed.”</p><p>“Maybe he likes short guys,” They deflect when Ed swings his crutch at them, laughing heartily “Same place tomorrow?”</p><p>Ed swats at them again “You never take me anywhere nice, fucker.” </p><p>They snicker behind him as he hobbles forward on his crutches, swinging his braced leg forward with each lift. </p><p>“Didn’t your mother teach you not to stare at cripples?” Ed says as he comes into the observation area. </p><p>“My mother mostly just taught me how to mix cocktails and tap kegs,” Roy says, eyes warmer than they had any right to be. Ed misses the days when insulting Roy made him annoyed, rather than fond. </p><p>“Oh, so that’s why you’re like that.” </p><p>“Charming and exceptionally fun at parties? I’m so glad you finally noticed. As an apology for my ogling, I did bring a cripple lunch.” Roy exhibits the neatly folded paper bag that had been tucked under his arm. </p><p>“Just like a politician to buy his way out of a faux pas,” Ed says, but he can’t help licking his lips -- whatever’s in the bag will be a damn sight better than whatever steamed gruel the hospital kitchen sends up. </p><p>“I’m shocked to discover you know what a ‘faux pas’ is, Fullmetal. I’ll have to stop excusing your small town sensibilities now that I know your vocabulary is expanding.” </p><p>“Get bent, Mustang.” </p><p>They hobble back up to Ed’s room-- at least Ed hobbles and Roy keeps a companionable pace beside him. Ed can feel the ache of muscle strain all the way down to his toes in his right leg and his left stump is sore where he rubbed it against the mat when he’d struggled earlier. Bandages kept it from chafing seriously but putting even a little pressure on the places where the port had become shrapnel left him with a dull throb for hours. With each swing of his crutches, the flare and ache spreading across his back must be like what he imagines bugs have to endure when morbid children pluck their wings off. </p><p>“Have they given you any indication as to when you can be released?” Roy asks as they wait for the elevator. </p><p>“Probably gonna have to wait for Al to come back, since they won’t let me alone,” Ed says, frowning at the steel sliding doors ahead of them, “Assuming I don’t lose my damn mind before that.” </p><p>“But the mint scrubs are so fetching on you and you have all these lovely nurses at your beck and call.” Ed rolls his eyes as Roy raises his voice just so and a nearby gaggle of young female nurses titter as they pass by. </p><p>The elevator pings open and Roy gives Ed the space he needs to shamble forward, putting his hand on the edge of the metal door to ensure it will stay open. Inside, Ed dares to lean on one crutch and raise the other to jab at his floor number and the doors close. </p><p>“...You couldn’t stay with someone else?” Roy asks, with an odd lightness to his tone that makes Ed shoot him a suspicious glare. This feels like a set up. </p><p>“Why does everyone keep asking me that? If I wanted to stay with someone I would just go home to Resembool and stay with the old hag--”</p><p>“Who would never be able to help you up if something were to happen, and whose home features no less than three flights of stairs.” That earns Roy another glare. The bastard is still just as smug as the day Ed met him and he doesn’t hide the self-satisfied curl of his lips.</p><p>“No one tells you how constipated you look when you pull faces like that you know, because you’re their boss. But we’ve all talked about it behind your back. I feel kind of bad about it now.” Ed lurches forward as the elevator opens on his floor and he doesn’t have to look back to know exactly how offended Roy looks -- he can taste it in the air. </p><p>--</p><p>Roy didn’t see the inside of his townhouse for a full week after Ed’s accident. He spent that first night with his eyes keenly trained on the morphine and saline drips running into Ed’s battered flesh arm. As the tireless night wore into thankless dawn his exhausted gaze shifted to Ed’s oddly serene face. A less informed man might think he was sleeping. A more paranoid one might think he was already dead. </p><p>For the life of him, Roy could not remember the last thing he had said to Ed. Something about Ibbott, maybe, or some joke about how he saw Ed in his office infinitely more often now than he ever did when Ed was actually in the military. Something that meant nothing. Something that gave no indication that Ed was the solely most precious and brilliant resource on the face of the planet. Something that did not precisely and succinctly outline Edward’s obligation as the proprietor of his body and soul to see it’s return to Roy in the near exact conditions with which he left. And that was Roy’s fault, but what else was new. </p><p>He hadn’t been able to hold on to whatever blithering platitude he’d bid Ed farewell with, possibly for the last time, but he had been able to hold on to the image of Ed standing in his office doorway, looking back at him with that perfect, blazing smile. It was like his heart was a shuddering camera, snapping and imprinting every precious detail on his soul-- the way his smile always tended to rise higher on the right side of his face than the left, the miniscule chip missing from one of his canines that you could only see as his upper lip drew back, the gentle squint of his eyes that alluded to the nearly-formed laugh lines that time had deigned to bestow.  It was a great relief that when Ed smiled he smiled so brightly that he and everyone else in the room was momentarily blinded; Ed with his own reckless joy and his audience with the sheer pleasure and beauty of it. It gave Roy’s heart, eclipsed by the white dwarf (ha) that was Edward Elric, the privacy to explode into its own supernova and subsequent black hole. </p><p>Roy had realized he was in love with Edward Elric shortly after the elder Elric brother returned from his sojourn West. He’d walked out of Roy’s life barely out of his errant boyhood, impatient to unleash himself on the world, and returned as a marginally more patient wordly young man. A young man with broad, strong shoulders that you could see flex and arc even under a dress shirt and waistcoat. A young man whose sculpted jawline was a pastiche of his father’s but the way he sets it firmly and raises his chin in defiance is a wholly idiosyncratic work of art. But it wasn’t just an aesthetic magnetism that drew Roy helplessly into Ed’s orbit. Ed was brilliant, infinitely more brilliant than the world deserved and twice as kind. Ed had changed the course of this country, of history, and he asked for nothing in return. He preached equivalent exchange but gave infinitely more than he ever got and just. </p><p>Stood there. Smiling in Roy Mustang’s office doorway. Then shattered himself into a thousand precious pieces to save the barebones of a little girl. Roy knew Ed well enough to know that when (<em>if)</em> he woke up, he would never for an instant regret it. </p><p>Moments after Roy realized exactly how deeply truly madly he had fallen in love with Edward Elric he arrived at the subsequent conclusion that nothing would come of it. That it could never, should never and would never, not for a single moment work. Ed’s life was finally taking shape out from underneath Roy’s thumb. He wasn’t anyone’s dog any more. Ed was free and Roy was not. Roy came at a high cost and Ed had already paid the universe several pounds of flesh. So Roy Mustang simply would not be in love with Edward Elric. It would not become a universal truth, an irrefutable paradigm from which there was no circumventing or overriding. There would be no grand unified theory that merged Roy’s existence on this plane with that of his heart’s desire. There simply would not. </p><p>Roy has compartmentalized so many ugly truths about himself, this could simply be one more.</p><p>Though it was not especially ugly nor was it especially well contained, if there was any indication to be found in the surge of joy he felt when Ed fixed his amber gaze solely on Roy and found it in himself to smile. He suspected Riza knew, but she’d proven herself psychic several times over and what was one more secret buried six feet deep between them. </p><p>He survived that first weekend by Ed’s bedside on muddy hospital coffee and worst case scenarios contingencies. He stood at the foot of Ed’s bed while nurses changed his bandages and checked his vitals. He read the notations in doctor chicken scratch on Ed’s chart. He lay his hand next to Ed’s on the well-washed white bedspread and closed his eyes for only a moment. He woke up with wrinkles pressed into his face where he had slumped on the woolen quilt. On Monday, Riza arrived at the hospital with a fresh uniform and a spartanly packed bag of toiletries. She brushed his hair and straightened his lapels for him and put her hand on his back to guide him out of the bleak sterile room and into the waiting car. She didn’t cow him about how slowly he worked the rest of the day, nor did she bat an eye when he packed it in at four thirty. She just drove him back to the hospital and ordered take-out for him from that Cretan place they both like. </p><p>He carried on like that for the rest of the week -- managing short bursts of restless sleep crammed in the armchair in the corner of Ed’s room, washing his face and dressing in the hospital bathroom, going through the motions at the office for as long as he could stand before retreating to Ed’s bedside to digest whatever work he couldn’t fake his way through from behind his desk. </p><p>They weren’t able to get a hold of Alphonse. If Alphonse were here, Ed would never be alone. Every hour Roy faces down with the intrusive thought that Ed could be waking up in the hospital alone, followed up by the winding panic that he might not wake up at all. He derails that train as quickly as it comes, but it just keeps coming, on the hour every hour. </p><p>Roy drafts a motion to bulk up government spending on international phone lines through the desert and skims memos without really absorbing them. He looks at the sunlight kissing each individual glossy eyelash that rests on Ed’s olive cheek. He looks away and stares at words on paper that mean less than nothing. Then Ed picks up his ancient coffee and tells him he looks like shit.<br/>
 <br/>
Roy goes home that evening for the first time since it happened and when he’s finally got the door shut and bolted behind him, he sinks down onto his knees and allows his relief to overwhelm him. His hands press to the cold tiles of his front foyer and he aches with a bone deep gratitude.  </p><p>Over the next week and a half, Roy sees how much staying at the hospital bothers Ed. He’s impatient at the best of times, and an absolute maniac at the worst. He throws himself into physio with the same determined clench of his teeth that he does everything else, but that only fills so many hours of the day. Roy brings him books, but he may as well be eating them, he tears through them so quickly.</p><p>He tries to inject a little distraction into his day and decides to bring Elicia and her new best friend to the hospital to visit. </p><p>“Ed!” Elicia shouts from the door, carrying a bouquet bigger than her head. It’s densely packed with red dahlias that Roy had picked up on the way to get the girls. Melanie follows Roy more reservedly into the room, leaning on a crutch and partially hiding behind the end of Roy’s coat. </p><p>“Elicia!” Ed answers, slamming the paperback trash Jean had brought him yesterday closed and tossing it aside without much ceremony. His eyes next meet Roy’s and then lower to Melanie, where she’s standing half behind him. </p><p>“Melanie,” he says, gentler, and Roy’s heart throbs. He sets the boxed pie Garcia had sent along down and Melanie hobbles forward. She’s quickly been putting on weight and looks far more like a child now than when they pulled her out of the wreckage, out from under Ed’s broken body. </p><p>She offers Ed a meticulously well decorated ‘get well’ card made of construction paper. Ed receives it with the same reverence he shows first edition obscure alchemy texts from the in-house loans only section of the library. The front fold features an elaborate crayon approximation of Ed and Melanie standing together holding hands and smiling. Roy has always been more of a thespian than a connoisseur of the visual arts, but even he could see the merit in Melanie’s careful application of silver glitter to Ed’s limbs. </p><p>“Thank you,” Ed says and means it with his whole heart, “I love this.” </p><p>“We brought pie! Melly and I helped cut the apples!” Elicia offers, all sweet smiles. Roy can hear Maes’ ghost cooing. </p><p>“Wow, that’s amazing,” Ed says sincerely, carefully placing Melanie’s card on his bedside table, “Did you have fun making it?” he asks Melanie, who nods quickly while training her sole eye on Ed’s bedspread. </p><p>“Then it’ll taste even better.” He pats the top of Melanie’s head and Roy sympathizes as she squeaks quietly. </p><p>Ed chats with the girls about school and the park and about Elicia’s new puppy, Beau. Melanie is very quiet, but Roy is under the impression that that’s her usual state of operations. Elicia does most of the talking, with Ed interjecting with questions, and Melanie nodding silently or whispering affirmative when Elicia says ‘right, Melly?’. Gracia had been kind enough to foster Melanie for the time being, as she recovers from her injuries and finds her footing under the immense psychological weight of trauma. Maes would be so proud of them, Roy can feel a phantom surge of feeling on his behalf. </p><p>The surgeons hadn’t been able to recover any part of Melanie’s damaged eye. The corneal tissue had been taken, likely for Ibbott’s black market trade, and the remaining tissues and nerves had become infected. Now she wears a bright clean bandage over the empty socket and obscures it with the drop of her bangs. They swing in her face as she nods excitedly when Ed asks if Elicia’s puppy is as cute as she says it is. Roy assembles little plates and cutlery with slices of Gracia’s baked heaven and distributes them to Ed and his teatime guests. </p><p>“When can you come meet Beau?” Elicia asks, crumbs of crust at the corner of her mouth. Roy will have to ask Gracia for some photos of the puppy to bring Ed next time. It has huge feet and a tendency to get dog hair all over Roy’s uniform, but it is very cute. </p><p>“Mm, probably not for a while,” Ed says, already on his second slice “The doctors say I can’t go back to my apartment by myself.”</p><p>“You can come stay with us! Like Melly!” </p><p>“That’s sweet, El, but I think you’ve probably got a full house already, especially with Beau too.” </p><p>Elicia looks thoughtful for a moment, “Why don’t you sleepover at Uncle Roy’s? His house is always empty.”  </p><p>Roy doesn’t move, like if he stays very still no one will remember he’s in the room. He chances a look, because he can’t help himself, at Ed. It’s an odd expression, one Roy cannot immediately place in his encyclopedia of known Elrician facial contortions. He’s smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s a strain just under his lower right eyelid that usually only flutters when Roy lectures him about the importance of expense reports and how he can’t expect the military to subsidize Alphonse’s one-man kitten rescue just because they found a box of orphan’s while on a mission.</p><p>“You know, Elicia, that’s a great idea, but Roy’s a busy guy. At least, that’s what he tells people. He doesn’t have time to look after somebody like me.” The expression shifts into something Roy more easily recognizes. Self loathing. Shame, tinged with frustration. </p><p><em>I would devote as many hours to being your nursemaid as you could stand; I would sponge you clean and feed you gelatin snack foods and turn down your bed every day regardless of the state of your injuries; I would even wear one of those folded nurse caps if you asked me nicely enough</em>, volunteers the inconvenient part of Roy’s heart that isn’t supposed to exist. </p><p>“Did you tell Edward about your science project, Elicia? Ed knows an awful lot about hydrogen ions and sodium,” Roy says instead, to save everyone else in the room the difficult moment they’ve found themselves in. </p><p>“Oh yeah!” Elicia launches into the details of her homemade volcano and Ed’s expression relaxes back into a gentle smile as he nods along to her lecture. </p><p>Roy told Gracia he would get the girls home well before dinner, so he makes preparations to usher them out of the room. Elicia helpfully offers to take their dishes away for them and Roy begins to button his jacket in preparation for the nippy fall evening awaiting them outside the hospital doors. He waits in the doorway for Elicia to return.</p><p>“Um... Mister Ed?” Melanie says, the longest string of words she’d murmured all day. </p><p>“Yeah?” Ed says softly, and Melanie scrunches her hands in his bedspread </p><p>“I um,” Melanie’s voice in a quivering and even from this distance Roy can feel the tectonic shifting in the throat of a child about to weep, “I’m so sorry.” </p><p>“Hey, you don’t have to be--” </p><p>“If you hadn’t tried to help me, this wouldn’t have-have happened,” Had they been able to save the tear duct in her damaged eye? Surely the remaining one was working twice as hard if they hadn’t, “It’s my fault that--” </p><p>“Melanie. Nothing about this was your fault. You did the only thing I could ever want you to do -- you survived. I’m so proud of you.”</p><p>Melanie hiccups around sobs that shake her shoulders. Ed reaches out, leaning out of the bed to hug her. Roy’s chest swells and he has to swallow that inconvenient piece of his heart again as it lodges itself in his throat. </p><p>-- </p><p>Sneaking out of the hospital is actually extremely easy. It’s all about confidence. He even waves to the gaggle of nurses at the floor station on his way over the elevator, big smile. The only article of clothing of his that had survived the accident was his jacket -- which he’d left in Jean’s car when they arrived at the warehouse district. </p><p>“Just going out for a smoke!” Ed says to his night nurse, when she eyes the coat with some trepidation. He pats his pocket, like it’s got a lighter and cigarettes in it instead of just his house keys and wallet. She waves him off and he hobbles down the elevator and out of this cursed place. </p><p>He hails a cab and is gone into the night. Driving through Central City at night is a luxury he’d sorely missed. He didn’t even really <em>like</em> it here but the novelty of seeing people out of the street who weren’t doctors or nurses or other sick people was truly unrivaled. He tips the cabbie generously and shores up his hold on his crutches. He usually takes the stairs up to their place, but he figures he’ll save that for a stronger day, maybe use it for physio at home. He takes the elevator up and sliding the key into the tumbler and turning is like-- well it’s like coming home. Once he’s got the door closed, he inhales deep and long. It smells like dust and books and old coffee and Al. He rinses out the carafe and puts on a fresh pot, calls up some Xingese delivery and leverages himself on to the couch. He should probably change out of these hospital scrubs before the delivery guy gets here, but he’s got some time he can afford to luxuriate in the sensation of his being on his own couch, in the well worn leather grove made by his own ass, surrounded by his things and without a single living soul making plans concerning his temperature or blood oxygen levels. </p><p>The delivery comes, blessedly, and Ed tips the guy almost a hundred percent because it’s worth it and because he answered the door in just his boxers and a tank top. Putting pants on over his  brace and bandaged stump by himself was a challenge he’d face tomorrow, or never, but certainly not now. He’s about to tuck into the most tantalizing plump soup dumpling he’s ever seen when there’s a knock at his door. He thinks about not answering. But it could be the delivery guy, with extra fish sauce, or something equally precious. So, Ed hauls himself up on one crutch and shuffles over the door. </p><p>It’s not the delivery guy. It’s Roy. </p><p>“Hello, Edward,” Roy says, like a bastard. </p><p>Ed’s face locks into a deep scowl. Maybe if he looks angry enough, Roy will just let him alone. </p><p>“Your doctor is very upset with you,” Roy says mildly, pushing his way into Ed’s apartment. </p><p>He makes himself at home in Ed’s kitchen, poking through Ed’s dinner and pilfering a spring roll. </p><p>“Don’t worry, I smoothed it over. Did you get wontons?” </p><p>“I don’t need you checking up on me, and I don’t need to be babysat. You can tell that doctor exactly where she can shove that supervised home release form--” </p><p>“Now, Edward, I know you would never speak rudely of a hard working medical professional, especially one who saved your life. That’s just not in your character. Let’s get this eaten and pack you up.” </p><p>Ed seethes. He closes the door and hobbles back over to the kitchen table, lowering himself carefully back into his seat before snatching the container of wontons away from Roy. </p><p>“I’m not going back to the hospital,” He says, venomously. </p><p>“No one said anything about the hospital,” Roy says, poking around in the delivery bag for another pair of chopsticks. “You’ve been released into my care.” </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“You’re staying with me until the doctor clears you otherwise. Ooh, dumplings.”</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>And they were roommates...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: negative self image associated with limb loss and disability, graphic description of medical situations, descriptions of pain. </p><p>Last summer, during chemo I got shingles in my left leg and the joint pain is no fucking joke. Groins are no longer sexy, they are a hot bed of torment ;3 Thank you for your support, comments and kudos! I feel pretty self conscious about my writing so having positive feedback is rly affirming. Please enjoy, and if there's something you're hoping for in the future of this fic, please speak up! Some folks commented on feeling positive about Melanie (who is not in this chapter, but will return soon!) and the physical therapist character and I was inspired to expand their roles significantly! Your feedback matters!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On an aesthetic spectrum, Roy’s house falls further from spartan than Ed expected. It’s somewhere between austere and refined. Ed had always secretly harboured the belief that Roy lived in his office. Sleeping under his desk didn’t seem to be outside of the realm of possibility, having seen the way Roy tended to nod off between rounds of arduous paperwork on sunny afternoons. Staring up at the warm brick facade from the sidewalk, the picturesque brownstone is like something Al would have pointed out from a design magazine: ‘Look, Brother, let’s patent some alchemized light bulbs and buy something like this! Think of how many cats we could-- why are you looking at me like that?’  </p><p>“Nice digs, shame it’s bought and paid for with all that bureaucratic blood money.” Ed is still feeling sore about having to leave the precious familiarity and privacy of his and Al’s apartment and he kicks irritatedly at the bottom step of the stoop. </p><p>Roy gives him a tight, joyless smile, “Actually I paid for this with my civil servant sweat and tears, the mortgage broker doesn’t take blood money anymore.” </p><p>Ed scoffs and Roy carries the overnight bag he made Ed pack back at the apartment up to the stoop. He waits for Ed on the landing before unlocking the door and holding it open to usher him inside. </p><p>He watches as Ed struggles to kick off his boot in the foyer, unable to bend down on his crutches or will his leg brace to bend just so. It was easier earlier, when he was still riding the adrenaline high of finally being out of the fucking hospital, but now his movements are sluggish and his leg feels so damn heavy. The laces aren’t done up too tightly, if he could just get the back off his heel-- </p><p>“Would you like some help?” Judgement and amusement have been painstakingly removed from Roy’s tone, but Ed hears them anyway. </p><p>“Would you like to fuck off?” </p><p>Roy watches Ed struggle for several more laborious moments before he sighs heavily and drops down onto one knee. </p><p>“I don’t need your help, Mustang, I’ll fucking get it.” </p><p>“I’m sure you would eventually, but I’d like to go to bed sometime before eleven and I still need to turn down the guest room, now hold still,” Roy says as his deft fingers make short work of Ed’s laces. </p><p>Ed stops thrashing his leg around and glares at the top of Roy’s head. He narrows his gaze, searching for a thinning spot to put his finger on, but he can’t find one. Stupid, well-aged bastard. </p><p>Once the laces are sufficiently loosened, Roy takes off his own boots and adds them to a carefully organized line of boots and dress shoes tucked neatly beneath a rung of color coded outerwear. Ed takes immense pleasure in kicking his boot off his foot and scattering Roy’s tidy little line. He feels Roy glaring at his back as he hobbles into the house proper. </p><p>Every room is picture perfect, like he's about to be featured in a magazine. Shelves are meticulously organized, books sorted by height and labeled jars facing forward free of the hurried fingerprints that cover most of the Elric residence’s surfaces. Copper pans hang from a rack over a marble countertop island in the kitchen, and they catch the light illuminating the pristine backsplash tiles. A den with several mahogany-coloured bookshelves are crammed full around the fireplace, which is framed with a grand molded wooden facade. There’s even a piano shoved in the corner. A curled wooden banister leads up to the second floor and the hallway he’s standing in features an Aerugoian runner in deep reds and amber inlays. Everything is really... nice. Ed’s thankful he doesn’t have to worry about the automail foot scraping the floor or catching on the rug but he is anxious about the arm getting machine oil on some precious, expensive upholstery. It is so pathologically tidy, that it doesn’t look lived in, and he doesn’t know how Roy manages it. </p><p>Then, he turns his gaze into the dining room. There Ed can see the real Roy. Piles of paperwork, at least three abandoned coffee cups, a half empty bottle of scotch, and stacks of reference texts. This is where Roy lives. Roy starts the day by stumbling down the stairs in the morning, makes only coffee for breakfast and scribbles his signature on the last of his expense reports so that Lieutenant Hawkeye doesn’t skin him when he sets foot in the office. He finishes it by burning the midnight oil pouring over documents and jotting notes about Provincial tax reform before he polishes off two fingers of scotch and goes upstairs to pass out with his sock garters still on. </p><p>Ed gives a little snort at the mental image. Roy comes up behind him and Ed starts. He’d forgotten Roy was here. </p><p>“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” he says, shrugging out of his uniform jacket, “I need to make sure the guest room is decent. The stairs won’t be too much trouble, will they?” </p><p>Ed looks up the stairs. It’s a straight shot and maybe only a dozen or so steps. It won’t be fun, or easy when he’s tired, but he’ll manage. </p><p>“I’ll be fine.” </p><p>“Lovely. Make yourself at home, then.” Roy heads up the stairs and leaves Ed unattended in his inner sanctum. Ed looks around. All the fun places to snoop, like the bedroom and bathroom, are on the second floor, but maybe he can find something good to read on one of those bookshelves in the den. </p><p>It’s a nice room. Cozy, even. The couch is antique and refined looking, a completely different animal from the boxy seventh-hand leather travesty he and Al pulled out of a garage sale, but comfortable and sturdy looking. There’s an emerald-coloured wool blanket tucked over one side and a few silky looking throw pillows. Ed could picture himself curling up here with his research and never leaving, if it wasn’t for the very fine layer of dust covering the surfaces. Not much, just enough to notice -- maybe two weeks worth?</p><p>It took about that long for Ed to notice a similar sort of dusting in his mother’s room, after she was gone.</p><p>There are photos on the mantle and they’re mostly of people Ed recognizes. One of Roy and Hughes, looking fresh faced in their academy uniforms. Another of them at Hughes’ wedding with Hughes all teary eyed and Roy laughing. One of Roy and Lieutenant Hawkeye, much younger but still looking incredibly severe. Ed had never known Hawkeye to wear her hair so short and Roy to wear his so long. There are several photos of Roy with his team, many of which seem to have been taken at the pub he knows the group frequents on Friday evenings. </p><p>There’s also a photo of an extremely young Roy, probably around the age Ed was when he got the automail, nestled between four young women who seemed to be fawning over him none of whom Ed recognizes. Roy’s face is plushly round with youth and his hair hangs shaggily in his eyes, partially obscuring the delicate epicanthic folds of his eyelids. He looks seriously at the photographer, but the highs of his cheeks are coloured with flush. An older woman smoking a cigarette watches them from a short distance away, a fond look on her face. Roy never talks about his family, so Ed had always assumed he didn’t have any. Are these women his sisters? The older one his mother? He can’t imagine Roy Mustang being anyone’s little brother. </p><p>He pokes around on the bookshelves and finds several editions he’s interested in, but leaves them shelved for now. The prospect of trying to manage unwieldy tomes while on crutches doesn’t appeal when weariness is starting to catch up with him. He can feel the ache in his leg and a twinge forming between his shoulders. He’s tired and needs to sit down before he gets light headed. There’s a newspaper on the coffee table in front of the couch, folded like Roy was in the middle of reading it. Ed unfolds it, flips through the newsprint pages to look at the headline. After a moment of skimming, Ed realizes this paper is old and his eyes flit to the top of the page. It’s dated the day of his accident. He squints at it suspiciously, but he doesn’t have time to complete the thought because Roy comes back down the stairs. </p><p>“You should be all set up up there, but let me know if there’s anything you need and we can get it for you tomorrow,” Roy says, unfolding his shirtsleeves where he’s rolled them up. He’s unbuttoned his collar too and even with his uniform pants on he looks so decidedly casual that it’s jarring. The cut of the uniform slacks is very flattering without the jacket and the stupid calvary skirt in the way. There’s a thick, visible vein running down the length of Roy’s right forearm that disappears into the crook of his elbow and as he raises it to loosen his folded shirt sleeve, it throbs. Ed’s mouth is dry. </p><p>“Yeah, uh. Thanks,” Ed says, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “You’re behind on your newsrags,” he says, brandishing the paper. Roy’s eyes flick down to it where Ed’s holding it. </p><p>“So it would seem.” He takes it without checking the date and puts it in what Ed assumes is a to-burn pile next to the fireplace. “Do you want a coffee, maybe some tea, before I turn in?” Roy re-cuffs his shirtsleeves as he walks back towards the kitchen. </p><p>“No, that’s fine, don’t--” Ed hauls himself back up on his crutches and shuffles after Roy. Damn, he’s bushed. He feels a twinge in his under arm where the butt of the crutch digs into his armpit, but he stifles the grunt. He doesn’t manage to smother the pained look that must be etched across his features though, because when Roy looks back at him his face crumples.</p><p>“Are you sure? Is there something else--” </p><p>“Mustang, stop, just ugh stop fussing. I’m not a freaking guest, I’m just imposing on you. You don’t have to-- to <em>do</em> that,” Ed grinds out, gesturing vaguely toward Roy. This is stupid. He shouldn’t be here. He looks at the ornate wooden clock clock ticking away brassily in the hallway; it’s too late to go back to the hospital. Fuck, why is he so stupid. He should have gotten a hotel, no one would have thought to look for him there. Now he’s stuck in stupid Roy’s fancy house, all misshapen and short tempered and he can’t just leave or skip out during the night. </p><p>“Edward,” Roy says, his voice cutting through the cacophony of self loathing and inward irritation Ed is conducting, “I’m not fussing. I possess a great deal of foresight, I am capable of charting out a great deal of eventualities, plotting a plan and executing it. I do not, under any circumstances <em>fuss</em>. Now, have a cup of tea.” Ed purses his lips and arches an eyebrow that broadcasts his skepticism. That didn’t seem especially likely, given that Ed that he once watched Roy redo Lieutenant Hawkeye’s bun for her after a windstorm knocked her hair clip out of place. She’d caught Ed watching and he thought maybe she was going to shoot him, but Ed hadn’t been able to tear his gaze away as Roy tugged off his gloves with his teeth and carefully folded the length of her flaxen hair. She tried to shrug him off eventually, saying it was good enough but Roy just hissed at her quietly so she would stay still until he was satisfied. The man fusses. </p><p>“I just mean-- it sucks that I’m here and that you have to...”<em> deal with me</em> “I don’t need you to look after me.” Ed leans against the kitchen doorway, just for a moment, to rest and to sufficiently sulk.  Roy is putting the kettle on and pulling two mugs out of the cupboard. He’s got this funny sort of amused look on his face. Smug bastard. “I don’t, ” Ed stresses. </p><p>“I can say with absolute certainty that you don’t need anyone -- except perhaps for Alphonse.” Roy takes a tea tin down from the cupboard and scoops little measurements of leaves into metal filters “But I have a debt, to both you and him, that compels me to make sure you don’t fall down the stairs and break your neck.” </p><p>“I’m not going to--” </p><p>“No, you’re not. You’re going to have this cup of tea and then go to bed because you’re exhausted from all your galavanting. You’re going to get the rest that you so desperately need and that I am now the direct stewart of. Now, for mercy’s sake, stop arguing. You are principled, believe me, I have noticed. You may have noticed I am as well, but we aren’t going to be able to argue our way out of this paper bag any time soon. Do us both a favour and make it easy for us.” Roy sets the tea tin down with a degree of finality.  Ed glares at him. Ed wishes he could dump that quickly boiling water into Roy’s lap. Ed hates him. But he hates him the most when he’s right. </p><p>“...Fine.” </p><p>“Thank god,” Roy says, and makes them tea. </p><p>-- </p><p>Inviting Edward Elric, the unknowing virtuoso of Roy Mustang’s heart, to stay with him for an indefinite amount of time was never the plan. It couldn’t be further from the plan, actually, but Riza Hawkeye had done everything short of putting a gun to Roy’s head to get him to agree to host the elder Elric. </p><p>“He needs to be with someone he can trust,” she said, loading several pieces of hospital issue mobility assistance equipment into the trunk of Roy’s car. </p><p>It was a nice sentiment, but Roy doesn't feel worthy of that trust. </p><p>He pokes his head into the guest room to see if Ed is awake and finds him spread eagle across the bed, remaining limbs akimbo, with his hair fanned out over the pillow. Even messy and tangled in places, it looks like spun gold. Like something a phoenix would nest in and nurture the precious mythic goslings of a bygone fable. His heart stutters traitorously. </p><p>“Ed,” he calls from the doorway, cemented in place, knowing if he takes a single step into the room he won’t be able to stop himself from pushing Ed’s bangs away from his face or drawing the comforter up over his exposed shoulder. Ed grunts. </p><p>“I’m heading out. Call me at the office if you need anything. I shouldn’t be later than five-thirty.” </p><p>Ed grunts again, more irritated than somnolent. Downstairs, Roy makes a larger pot of coffee than usual, expecting Ed’s synapses won’t fire properly until he’s consumed at least a quart. </p><p>Riza does them both the courtesy of not asking how Ed is doing, probably because she can read Roy’s stress-level like a psychic divining his aura. What will Roy say to Alphonse when he calls to discover that while his brother survived having a building dropped on him, Roy unceremoniously left him unattended in his townhouse for several hours where he subsequently smothered himself with Roy’s down duvet. He would hate for Riza to have to scrub his brain matter and skull fragments off the office wall after the younger Elric alchemizes the world’s first cross continental long range weapon and kills Roy with it instantly. </p><p>But when Roy returns, he doesn’t find Ed with his neck and limbs bent at rag doll angles at the bottom of his stairs. No, he finds him tucked up with one of several books he appears to have lifted from Roy’s collection and spread out on the coffee table in the den. He’s bundled himself up in a blanket and judging from the empty coffee mug and crumb laden plate that’s been pushed to the far end of the table in favour of more books, he’s been there since breakfast. </p><p>He doesn’t even look up as Roy enters the foyer which gives Roy ample opportunity to observe the peaceful, borderline domestic scene before him. Ed plays with his hair as he reads, pressing the ensnared length to the dimple between his lips and his chin, working it back and forth with the tips of his softer fingers. His lips move ever so slightly as his eyes slide back and forth over the page, mouthing the words without summoning their sounds into the air. The low lighting and ambient receding sunset catch on the brights of Ed’s hair and eyes. </p><p>How, when Ed was a brassy, obstinate teenager rabble-rousing and kicking his combat boots up on all available surfaces did Roy not immediately foresee this potential outcome: that the fires of hell would burn so hot and absolute that they would purge the minor impurities and leave behind a trove of refined, precious gold. The sight of Ed, honed to a perfect edge, could cut a man open and leave him gutless.</p><p>Roy has often thought of himself as a greedy man. Each man under his command is precious, irreplaceable and as such he aims to protect them with every ounce of power at his disposal. He cannot be satisfied until he occupies the single highest seat in the land and can declare with absolute certainty that everything he oversees is accounted for. Those are the desires of a selfish man. But looking at Edward Elric, so delicately folded up on his couch, his crutches within arms reach and his hair cascading loosely over his shoulder, Roy yearns. The piece of his heart that he had so certainly and shrewdly decided would be shunted off and left to rot now ached, pulled him shuffling forward to the den. He could brush Ed’s hair away, lift his chin and lean over him and kiss him within an inch of his life. Ed would look up at him with those gleaming, iridescent eyes and Roy would promise him the moon if Ed would give him just this one night. The unforgiving edge of Ed’s beauty could eviscerate them both and Roy would gladly die in that bloodbath. </p><p>“Are you hungry?” he says, fixed to the doorway. He can’t go on like this. He needs to find a way to be in the same room as Ed and regulate his cardiovascular system. </p><p>“Hmmn,” Ed answers, not looking up from his book. A couple more moments of silence follow as he finishes out the paragraph and Roy waits patiently. Finally, Ed looks up, beginning to gather his hair up into a tie he had bound around his wrist. The way it slithered over Ed’s shoulder was enough to make Roy’s stomach drop between his knees. </p><p>“Starving, actually,” Ed says and Roy looks at the rug.</p><p>“Let me get out of these clothes and I’ll put something together,” Roy says, thankful for the opportunity to get out of Ed’s direct line of sight while he reigned himself in. A very unhelpful part of his reckless animal brain began offering suggestions of how he could take his clothes off and feed Ed all in one fell swoop. </p><p>Roy washes his face and brushes his hair back, fixing himself a stern look in the mirror. He had decided he wasn’t going to do this. He wasn’t going to stare wistfully, like a lovesick teenager, and pine over what he had no right to want. Ed is his friend and ally, and whatsmore Roy’s responsibility in a deeply vulnerable time. There isn’t room for yearning or lecherousness or heart skipping moments. He needs to isolate that traitorous part of his heart and cement it in and drop it to the bottom of a lake. </p><p>So, he does it. He visualizes locking it in a box and then burying that box in a cement cube and then he drops that cube in the river and it disappears. He’s in control, not subject to the vagaries and vulgarities of being in love. He returns to Ed in loose fitting slacks and a mauve cable knit sweater, that he rolls up at the sleeves in preparation for meal assembly. Ed has leveraged himself up onto his crutches and made his way over to the kitchen where he’s claimed a stool poised near the island. </p><p>“What are you in the mood for?” Roy asks, opening his refrigerator to take stock. When Ed’s answer isn’t immediately forthcoming, he raises his gaze to see if he’s all right. </p><p>Ed appears to be staring at something in Roy’s direction, his eyes levelled somewhere around Roy’s mid body. His mouth is open. </p><p>“Ed?” he prompts and Ed seems to snap back into the present, his face shuddering closed with offence. </p><p>“What?” </p><p>“You were staring.” </p><p>“What. No, I wasn’t— you just look weird. Shut up.” </p><p>Now it’s Roy’s turn to stare. Ed is scowling at him.</p><p>“I look weird?” </p><p>“Yeah! You’re not— I thought maybe the uniform had fused to your skin permanently, but since you seem to have most of your dermis still attached, I guess I was wrong.” </p><p>Roy takes a number of tomatoes out of the fridge and begins setting up a prep area for himself on the kitchen island, “You’ve seen me out of uniform before.” </p><p>“Yeah, but you always somehow make it seem like you’re still wearing it,” Ed says, waving his hand off in some way that signals less than nothing to Roy, so really the whole exchange clarifies very little, but he supposes he’ll just have to accept it. Another Elrician mystery for the ages.</p><p>“... Is pasta alright?” he says to get them back on track. </p><p>“Pasta’s great,” Ed says, “Give me a knife, I’ll chop these.” </p><p>They get to Roy sautéing and Ed commenting on the absence of flame alchemy in Roy’s cooking routine when the telephone rings. </p><p>“Watch that, will you?” Roy says, wiping his hands on the tea towel he has thrown over his shoulder, as he goes into the front hall to pick up the phone. </p><p>“Aye aye, sir,” Ed chirps with palpable irony and a miserably ill-formed salute. </p><p>“Mustang residence,” Roy says when he picks up the phone. </p><p>“Roy! Is Brother there?! The hospital said you were looking after him and I—!” Comes Alphonse’s tinny, nervous voice over the line, slightly distorted by the subpar connection. </p><p>“Yes, yes, he’s right here, Alphonse,” Roy says, loud enough that he’s sure he’s heard over the static and into his kitchen. He turns, anticipating Ed’s eager shuffle over.</p><p>“Can I speak to him? Is he alright? Oh my god, Winry! He’s with the General!” Roy tips the phone away from his ear at that last part, because he doesn’t need it shouted directly into his ear drum. </p><p>He hands the receiver to Ed, who says, “Hi, Al. Hi, yes I’m fine. No! You can’t just— this trip was so important to—“ And then Roy steps away and actively begins not listening in order to afford the brothers a modicum of privacy. </p><p>He goes back to preparing their dinner and that’s when he notices for the first time that his dish rack is full. There are whatever pans Ed used to make himself breakfast this morning, but also several mugs and glasses that Roy had been ignoring from his dining-room-turned-office, all freshly scrubbed and neatly stacked in the rack. Which is interesting chiefly because the state of the reports Ed filed when he was in the military (smudged with ink, containing several curse words that would need to be blotted out before filing, sprinkled with crumbs, and sometimes singed around the edges) and his propensity for putting his scuffed up platform boots on every available surface had lead Roy to believe Ed would take the same reckless approach to cleanliness as he did to routine, but vitally important paperwork. What domesticated alternate universe Edward had they pulled from the wreckage two weeks ago? Should he mention it to Ed’s doctor, just in case it was a sign of brain damage? Roy adds a sprig of thyme to the pan as he pushes vegetables around with a wooden spoon. </p><p>A short while later, Ed returns to the kitchen and sits heavily back down. Being harangued by your baby brother from the other side of the continent might actually be more exhausting than being stabbed through the thigh, if the slump of Ed's shoulders was to be believed.</p><p>“He wants to talk to you.” </p><p>“Alphonse does?” </p><p>“Yeah, he’s still on the line. Tell him I’m fine.” Speaking the<em> or else</em> aloud would be overkill. </p><p>Roy doesn’t hide his skeptical look, “Don’t let this burn.” Exchanging unspoken threats was a new level of closeness for them; usually they took great pleasure in detailing the bleak consequences of failure.  </p><p>He goes back out into the hall and picks up the receiver, “Alphonse, it’s Mustang.” </p><p>“Is Brother really alright? How bad is it actually? The hospital said the automail port—“ </p><p>“It was damaged beyond repair. Miss Rockbell will need to evaluate the damage herself when she returns with you, but I’ve been told that he’ll need a full port replacement. It was touch and go for the first day or so,” On the other end of the line Alphonse exhales like he’s taken a blow to the gut. Roy knows exactly how low and painful that blow is. “But he’s been improving by leaps and bounds. He gets around okay, and he’ll be staying with me here for the foreseeable future.” </p><p>“He says I shouldn’t come back yet.” The younger Elric doesn’t hide the staunch irritation he feels with his elder, but it quickly softens to trepidation as he asks. “What do you think?” </p><p>Roy looks over his shoulder and isn’t surprised in the slightest to see Ed watching him. He makes a series of graphic, threatening gestures but Roy just points to where their dinner is starting to singe on the element. </p><p>“I think dire hours have passed,” he says to Alphonse, turning away as Ed flips him the bird with a silver finger, timing it just so that he can plausibly deny seeing it and drive Ed insane, “He’ll need to recover before you’ll be able to pursue automail reconstruction. I think if it would give you peace of mind to come home, don’t let him dissuade you.” There’s a thump in the kitchen that sounds suspiciously like a crutch slamming on his marble countertop, but Roy doesn’t acknowledge it, “But I don’t think it’s logistically necessary.”  </p><p>There’s a pause, just long enough that Roy is worried that the call has dropped, but Alphonse’s voice comes through, “And you don’t mind having him there?” </p><p>The question itself doesn’t catch Roy off guard so much as the way he’s asked it. With a drifting, curious lilt tacked on to the end of it. Like the question is quite literally leading him.</p><p>“Well,” Roy says, trying to push the misplaced befuddlement down and out of his voice, “Your brother is by no means the most gracious guest I’ve hosted, but he appears to be housetrained at the very least.” There’s another suspicious clang behind him and Roy can feel the heat of a glare directed at the back of his head. He suspects he is moments from having a copper pot lobbed at his head. </p><p>“I don’t mind, though, no,” he says, unable to stifle the fondness he feels. And he doesn’t. His guest room existed functionally as a last ditch safe house space for dire emergencies and he hadn’t had someone staying with him since one of Madame’s new girls was struggling with a lingering ex-boyfriend. He hadn’t lived with someone in a daily, companionable way since he lived in the barracks and he hesitated to call that truely companionable. Maes had made it tolerable at best. Having Ed so close was like flirting with a new kind of fire, one that no mortal could claim dominion over, but it was keeping him warm. </p><p>The static is just weak enough that he catches the thoughtful noise Alphonse makes. The back of Roy’s neck feels warm for reasons other than the killing intent being directed at him. Alphonse, in sharp contrast to his brother, always plays his cards close to his chest and Roy has a sinking feeling that he’d just lost a round of poker he hadn’t known they were playing. </p><p>“Alright. We’ll call you again when we arrive at the next village. Thank you so much for looking after Brother, I hope he doesn’t make it more difficult than strictly necessary.” </p><p>“I was under the impression that difficulty was a necessity for Ed, like air or water.” </p><p>“Oh good, you’re prepared then. Tell him I love him and that I’ll call as soon as I can.” </p><p>“Of course.” </p><p>“Good evening, General.” </p><p>“Good evening, Alphonse, take care.” </p><p>He hangs up the receiver and turns to see Edward portioning out their dinner on plates, one crutch jammed under his automail arm and the other laid out across the counter. </p><p>Roy gets out the cutlery and ignores the expectant stare that follows him across the room. </p><p>“Well?” Ed finally demands as Roy takes up a seat next to him at the island. </p><p>“He’ll call from the next township.” </p><p>“On his way home, or...?” Stress sinks Ed’s expression, wilting it around the corners of his mouth and eyes such that his shoulders drop under the pressure. There’s a tension in his eyebrows that Roy is intimately familiar with though usually there’s a solid wood desk for him to duck behind before he gets an improvised projectile to the head. Here, all he has is a couple of forks.</p><p>“He’ll continue the tour.” Instantly, Ed’s hostile posturing drops. </p><p>“Oh,” he says. </p><p>There are several moments of silence as Roy distributes cutlery and avails the pepper grinder to them both. Ed’s expression makes several abrupt shifts and Roy demurely busies himself to allow him to sort through them. </p><p>“...Thanks,” Ed says finally, and when Roy looks at him he’s looking at his dinner, pushing a spiraled fusilli around his plate with the tines of his fork. When his face colours, you can see the constellation of freckles illuminating his cheekbones. Barely a hue or two darker than his skin, but as undeniable as the stars themselves. Somewhere in Roy’s heart, an indomitable river begins to erode concrete. </p><p>Roy makes a noncommittal noise and asks what reading Ed got up to today. </p><p>-- </p><p>Just like Ed didn’t know what his expectations were when it came to Roy’s interior design choices, he didn’t especially know what to expect from his behaviour in his private life. They’d seen each other, obviously, socially since the Promised Day and since Ed came back from his trip out West. Sometimes he met up with Roy and the team at the pub for a drink, sometimes he ran into Roy at some gala the university was holding that he was forced to go to by his department head. They saw each other. They were friendly. Sometimes Al would say ‘why don’t you call the General’ and Ed would say ‘he’s busy’ and Al would look at him in a way that Ed doesn’t totally understand so he’d change the subject. But they see each other. It’s not a big deal. </p><p>When they saw each other, it was normal. Roy was Roy, maybe a little smarmier with Ed than he was with other people but they brought that out in each other. </p><p>But this was Roy, on a Saturday morning drinking coffee in his pajamas with hair bed-rumpled. This was Roy half asleep in the armchair in the den after a long day at the office, newspaper barely held aloft and reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. This was Roy over take out, arguing about the chemical consequences of having an element with an atomic number above a hundred and thirty seven and fishing noodles out of his hair when Ed gesticulates too passionately with his chopsticks. This was Roy laughing and meaning it, not performing for anyone else. Just Ed. It feels kind of raw and new and Ed doesn’t know if it means anything or is even real, he could just be making it up but he doesn’t dislike it. It was Roy, intimately. </p><p>This is Roy, knelt on the floor between Ed’s knees with the first aid kit open on the bedside table, gently peeling off gauze from Ed’s mangled stump. He’s wearing his glasses, because he needs the extra magnification to know exactly how gross and oozy Ed’s surgical scars are. Ed sucks his teeth as gauze refuses to part from an especially thick scab and tears at the newly healed skin. Roy freezes, holding the offending gauze in place with one hand and clipping around it gently with tiny scissors with the other. Deft fingers retrieve a cotton pad from the first aid kit and Roy gingerly dabs the spots of blood. </p><p>“Sorry,” he says, not looking up. </p><p>“S’fine,” Ed says, watching Roy’s sure fingers apply gentle pressure until the bleeding stops. When it does, he carries on removing the used bandages and tosses them in the waiting trash can. He begins to wipe the area down with alcohol, which stings, but Ed’s used to it at this point and doesn’t even flinch. Roy fans the area with his hand, encouraging it to dry. </p><p>“You’re good at this,” Ed says, because he is. Probably just as good as the nurses at the hospital, though he had noticed Roy was gentler -- nurses probably had a hundred bandages to change in a day, no time to worry about each little pinch and sting. Roy was thorough and sure, removing bandages with the same smooth confidence he did everything else, never pressing too hard when he santizes the freshly healing skin. He’s gentle. Tender, you could say. </p><p>“They taught us first aid in basic training. Used it a lot during the war.” </p><p>“No shit,” Ed says conversationally.</p><p>“This isn’t even my first dismembered limb, you know,” Roy says, more playful than is really appropriate, but never let it be said that Ed didn’t have a macabre sense of humour. </p><p>“Still pretty nasty though, right?” Ed laughs a little and wrinkles his nose. His stump was bad enough with the port capping the end -- gnarled scar tissue and unforgiving bolts through his kneecap. Not having the automail is challenging beyond the mobility problem. The only thing Ed hates more than having to have it is not being able to wear it at all. The leg is usually easier than the arm because under pants and a boot you can’t tell the difference but now even at a glance strangers can see how broken he is. He only leaves Roy’s to go to hospital for physio and it suits him that way. People stare and try to imagine the horror that Ed has to greet every morning in the mirror. It’s always infinitely worse in reality than it is in the minds of other people. </p><p>The skin is still mottled with bruises in purple and dark green, and he still has stitches and staples threading across where the javelin had caught him and pinned him just above the knee. The doctors told him he had been so damn lucky that it hadn’t caught an artery, or he would have bled out under that pile of rubble. Most of the port that capped his stump had been destroyed in the accident or removed during surgery, leaving just the actual nerve port in the center of his leg. It had been partially flattened in the collapse and he’d been told Winry would probably have to remove it in order to install a new port, which he wasn’t looking forward to. The absence of the port was disturbing every time he looked at it. The port was ugly, inhuman by nature, but it spackled neatly over the twisted pale scars and ropy tissue that gave way to austere incompleteness. Without the automail, he is more than broken. He borders on monstrous. </p><p>“Not at all,” Roy says nonchalantly. Like he really isn’t repulsed at the sight of Ed’s bloody, knotted stump. He takes a fresh roll of gauze out of the first aid kit and begins carefully coiling it around the end of Ed’s leg. His hands are dry, but not rough, and move in confident strokes. Ed raises his gaze up from nimble fingers to watch Roy’s face. He looks focused, but impassive. There’s no visible sign of recoil or tightly buttoned disgust. He doesn’t flinch or shy away as his fingertips slide across sutures and staples. He looks away only to fish the medical tape free of the kit one handed, the other splayed across the length of Ed’s bandaged stump to hold the clean gauze in place. The warmth of his palm is gentle, almost soothing on the sore skin below. </p><p>He tapes the edge down and slips his fingers under the edge of it to test the pressure, “Not too tight?” </p><p>Ed shakes his head and Roy nods in acceptance, beginning to pack up the kit. </p><p>“...It really doesn’t bother you?” Ed asks, before he can stop himself. Really, He doesn’t want to know if it does or not, because what the fuck is he supposed to do if it does? Maybe what he’s really asking is exactly how boldfaced a lie can Roy say directly into Ed’s face. He braces himself for a cold, unfeeling standoff and a friendless smile. He always had to open his big stupid fucking mouth and ruin everything.</p><p>Roy pauses what he’s doing and looks back at Ed. With his glasses on, Ed can see each short jet lash clinging to Roy’s waterline. Roy is appraising his expression, gaze touching the concerns of Ed’s face and taking him in so thoroughly that Ed feels like he should be embarrassed. He must see something on Ed’s face, some trace of anxiety that Ed hasn’t been able to sweep under the rug, because his expression softens. Ed hates how easy it is for him to read people in general, but especially how easily he reads Ed. He hates being pitiable. He expects him to laugh, maybe flick him on the stump. Instead he takes off his glasses and puts his hand high on Ed’s more-or-less intact right leg. </p><p>“Ed, what I love most about this body of yours, is that it lets you exist in this world. No part of it could disgust or bother me, because it lets you be here.” Ed works his tongue against the roof of his mouth, parched, like he’s been struck with an excruciatingly localized sandstorm and it’s in his mouth. He watches dumbstruck as Roy gets up from where he’s knelt, an audible crick to his back and a stifled groan reverberating through his chest. </p><p>Roy must be expecting Ed to make a joke, because he says, “Not a word” which is charitable because it gives Ed a solid defence as to why he doesn’t say a single thing as Roy packs up the kit and lets him alone in the borrowed bedroom. </p><p>Moments like this happen more and more often. Roy says something like ‘looks like you went really hard today’ when he gets back from physio, or ‘do you need a hand getting in the tub’ when Ed says he wants to take a bath or ‘do you need help with your stretches’ that deactivates Ed’s speech center and leaves him slack jawed. Or he’ll wear a loose-necked sweater that so squarely frames the curvature of his collar bones that Ed’s brain shorts out because it’s devoted a hundred percent of its synapse usage to calculating the angle of elevation between the cords of Roy’s throat to the planes of his clavicle.</p><p>Roy hasn’t said anything, because he’s a graceful kind of person who cares about things like being a good host or whatever, so he probably is just trying to be polite.<br/><br/>Ed wishes he could talk to Al about it. Al is way better at puzzling people out than Ed. Probably from all the people watching he did before he got his body back, so he could remember how people were when he finally got to walk among them like a person again. What’s Ed’s excuse? Why is he just like this? </p><p>He throws himself back into the bed, lounging out across Roy’s stupidly nice bedclothes that he’s sure he’s gotten machine oil all over already and stares at the ceiling.  Other people are a complete mystery, but Ed’s at an even greater loss with himself. He had a stupid idiot baby crush on Roy growing up, he acknowledges that. But it was for stupid babies who hadn’t figured out that not everyone looks at their same sex authority figures with the same keen eye he did and he got over it. He got over it ages ago. He got over it and never thought about it again. </p><p>He never thought about it so hard that all the boyfriends, or almost-boyfriends, or one-night-only-definitely-not-boyfriends-did-I-even-know-his-names, he’d had since then looked nothing like Roy. Because he wasn’t thinking about Roy.</p><p>So why’s he thinking about it now? </p><p>Not that he wanted Roy to be his <em>boyfriend</em>. His face feels warm. This is stupid, he should stop thinking about this. He wishes Al were here. </p><p>“Do you want to play backgammon?” Roy says, loudly from the bathroom down the hall judging by the acoustics. </p><p>“Hell yeah,” Ed says, hauling himself up on one crutch a little recklessly. His therapist keeps telling him that he needs to stop favouring his automail side so much, that the arm was damaged in the accident too and that he could knock something loose if he leans on the crutch too hard -- but Ed’s fought off god-demons with this thing, he’s not worried about knocking it around a little.</p><p>--</p><p>It’s in the middle of evening physio that Ed’s arm gives up the ghost. </p><p>He’s been going hard since he got in, working off some frustration that’s coiled tight in his abdomen. If he could talk to Al about it, maybe he could work it out that way, but right now he can only think to purge it out with sweat. His therapist has been humming disapprovingly but Ed keeps laughing it off and insisting he can do a couple more reps. He’s crawling across the mat and gets himself under the bar he’s supposed to pull himself up on when he tries to grab at it with his automail. The elbow swings forward and then drops limp at his side. He tries to summon motion back into it, but the nerves impulses won’t connect to the electrical system and it just hangs there like so much dead weight. </p><p>Erminio, the hospital’s automail specialist, is examining him when Roy arrives at the hospital. He’d told his therapist he could cab home one armed just fine, but they said it would be better if Roy drove him, so stupid Roy had to leave the stupid office early. He comes quickly down the corridor, the heels of his boots clicking a swift pace that Ed can hear from inside the exam room. Dread is a hot coal under his stomach, bringing the acid to a roaring boil and making him break into a cold sweat. Roy’s going to be pissed. Who knows what kind of shit Lieutenant Hawkeye has already been giving him about needing to leave the office early all the time now that Ed is Roy’s live-in charity case, but this is the icing on the cake. Ed steels himself for a long, icy car ride home. Best case scenario, Roy lectures him about being reckless with the limbs he has remaining. Worse case, he’s back at the hospital full time tomorrow morning. </p><p>Roy comes into the exam room looking as pale as Ed’s ever seen him. There’s sweat on his brow, like he’d jogged at some point between his car and the hospital doors. </p><p>“Are you alright?” he asks, breathless with his fingers curled around the door jamb. </p><p>Ed hesitates momentarily, looking quickly to the automail mechanic who’s poking around at his limp arm before looking back at Roy, “Uh, yeah, I’m fine. No more double handsprings for a while though,” he says and swings his shoulder to make his limp arm sway like a pendulum. The mechanic looks less than impressed. </p><p>Roy’s shoulders drop with relief and his mouth crinkles into a tight smile, “I know you were so looking forward to adding that extra roundoff to your routine. I guess we’ll have you bench you.” </p><p>“Say it isn’t so, coach,” Ed says, mock pained. The mechanic looks at him like he’s insane. </p><p>“How bad is it?” Roy asks Erminio, dropping the smile as he steps closer. Ed had to take his shirt off for the exam and he loathes the shy heat that climbs up his spine as Roy comes closer. He half turns his body away and the automail wrenches awkwardly in the joint. </p><p>“It’ll have to come off. I think the grounding has come loose, but this is such a detailed custom model, I don’t think there’s anyone in Central that can fix it,” says the squat, dark man who’s been examining Ed for the last twenty minutes. “We’re lucky it’s not lodged in the joint. I’d have to cut it out.” The thought of Winry recovering his automail, buzz sawed off his body, sends a cold chill through him. </p><p>Roy must be imagining the same bloodbath because he’s also grimacing, “Yes, well, count every blessing.” </p><p>Erminio pushes away from Ed on his little rolly chair and shuffles some things on his desk. He comes back with a pair of heavy work gloves. </p><p>“You ready to do this? You’ve probably got an exposed nerve connection.” Ed waves him off with his flesh hand. </p><p>“I’ll be fine, this isn’t my first rodeo.” The smile Ed offers feels like a grimace. </p><p>Erminio doesn’t look convinced, but he dons the gloves anyways. He gestures to Roy, directing him to Ed’s other side. </p><p>“Hold his arm, would you.” </p><p>Roy comes to sit next to Ed on the low exam table, putting one hand on the inner crease of Ed’s elbow and the other on Ed’s forearm. His hands are smooth and dry to the touch, but warm. </p><p>Erminio flicks up the release hatch, “On the count of three... one... two...” </p><p>He pulls the release before he says three and Ed curses loudly. The loose connection burns up his nerve endings deep into his shoulder and across his chest. It’s like being electrocuted. The pain recedes momentarily, but there’s a lingering queasiness he hadn’t expected that follows. Noise and sensation rush his senses and the room spins away from him. His head feels heavy and without realizing quite how it’s happening, he tips forward. </p><p>“Whoa there,” Roy says from inside Ed’s ear. Ed’s face comes into contact with rough fabric but it smells divine. Musk and earthiness. Like wood smoke and gun oil. He breathes deep and tries to keep himself from heaving. The disconnect isn’t usually this bad, that loose connect really must have done him in. There’s pressure on the side of his head, holding him against the starched material that he now realizes is a uniform. </p><p>He has his face pressed into Roy’s collar, but before he even has the mental space to feel humiliated, Roy is holding him in place gently. </p><p>“Just breathe,” he says, like Ed isn’t desperately trying to do exactly that. Roy’s chest rises and falls perceivably and it just feels natural to match the movement with his own breathing. They stay like that for what feels like an age, Roy modeling a natural human survival function and Ed floundering to mimic him until the rushing between his ears slows and he feels almost normal. </p><p>He sits up slowly, afraid that any sudden movements will upend the universe again, and as he does Roy tilts his head to get a better look at Ed’s face. This close Ed can actually spot a few threads of silver around Roy’s hairline and wow, okay, their faces are much too close. </p><p>“All right?” Roy asks. His hand is lingering where it’s cuffed around Ed’s ear. Ed’s hair is tangling around his fingers. </p><p>“Never better,” Ed chokes. </p><p>“Yeah, ‘fraid you aren’t going to be able to get this repaired in Central,” Erminio says, still very much here and holding Ed’s limp arm, admiring it from several angles “It’s a damn fine piece of work though.” </p><p>“Thanks. Rockbell Automail, I’ll send you her card,” Ed says, tearing his face away from Roy, maybe a little too fast if the blurring at the edge of his vision gives any indication. Roy’s hand drops away and Ed’s ear feels cold.</p><p>Erminio wraps Ed’s automail in a sheet of linen for them and Roy helps Ed put his shirt back on, his empty sleeve hanging limply off his shoulder like a white flag on a windless battle field. Ed’s physical therapist meets them outside of the exam room with a wheelchair. Ed starts to protest, but the deadbolt glare they pin him with silences him and he sits quietly as they roll him out to Roy’s waiting car. </p><p>The quiet of the drive back to Roy’s affords Ed time to stew and reflect. He’d been lucky to make it out of the accident with the arm. He hadn’t thought about exactly how lucky he was until he didn’t have it anymore. Without the arm, he couldn’t do alchemy. Without the arm, his mobility was profoundly compromised. Without the automail, he felt fraile and waifish like a strong wind could bowl him over. Without the automail, he was a cripple. Which was constant truth, a reality, but to endure the consequences of it was agony. It was humiliating. </p><p>Ed’s shame came up to a rolling boil as he thought about the next series of consequences. The hospital mechanic had given him a number to call where he could get a loaner automail, Ed had no idea what he was supposed to say to the man -- just call him up and ask if he had extra arm kicking around that Ed could have? Winry had always been his mechanic, she kept all his measurements and specifications jotted down in a notepad at home and Ed never gave them a second thought. He couldn’t even begin to guess what he needed or how quickly to expect it. Never in his life had he felt so stupid -- why didn’t he listen to his physio and lighten up on his arm? Why didn’t he ask Win to give him his measurements before she left? Why didn’t he take her up on her offer of building him an alternate arm, something for emergencies exactly like this one? Damn him and his hubris, his lack for foresight. </p><p>By the time they arrived home, the flame of his anxiety had reduced his embarrassment into sticky hot anger. His wrath was a viscous incendiary that could spread, catch, cling to all the surfaces he exposed himself to. Sometimes that meant friendly fire. Roy hadn’t even said anything since they left the hospital, but Ed glared at him as they worked through the ordeal of getting Ed out of the car. Without hesitation Roy righted Ed as he stumbled out, unfamiliar with his mail-less weight distribution. Worse still was the patient gentleness, lingering at Ed’s shoulder as he painstakingly hopped up the stairs. Roy hadn’t said anything the whole trip home and now he discreetly lowered his gaze as he helped tip Ed into a chair to get his boot off. Ed’s vision edged with red as he stared down at the top of Roy’s head -- Roy couldn’t even bear to look at him, pitiable as he was. He was such a sorry sack that Roy couldn’t tell him off, couldn’t rib him even and Ed hated it. </p><p>“I’m going to bed,” Ed says, dragging himself up on one crutch. He had been near dead tired by the end of physio and now he was driving forward on the fumes of his anger and adrenaline. His lower body felt like dead weight, pulling him heavily toward the floor while he leveraged himself up on a crutch. </p><p>“You should eat something first,” Roy says placidly and Ed wants to kick him. </p><p>“’M not hungry.” He hauls himself down the corridor to the bottom of the stairs. They look longer, more insurmountable than usual, but he won’t waver. He puts the foot of his crutch on the first stair and grips the banister. </p><p>“Ed,” Roy calls but Ed doesn’t answer. He hauls himself up the first step, despite the bolt of pain that shoots across his shoulder and settles in his left stump. It burns, but he can’t give up the momentum. He gets up another step and gets his foot under him, and then another but the stupid thing won’t commit to the bit and buckles. It’s the knee, Ed can feel the spike of hateful heat there and his joint folds around it. He lets go of the crutch to catch himself on the next stair and it goes clattering down the way behind him. </p><p>“Ed!” Roy says, now with more force but Ed doesn’t look back. There’s a hand touching Ed’s shoulder and he shrugs it off violently, hand lashing out to slap it away before he grabs at the stair again. </p><p>“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snaps. He scrunches his fist against the hardwood of the stair and grits his teeth. He can do this. It’s just stairs. He drags himself up to the next step and his stump catches painfully on the stair below. He curses and twists his body away, slamming his hip into the wall. He stays like that, crumpled on the stairs, panting quietly for a long moment. Finally, he looks over his shoulder and there’s Roy, eyebrows drawn together and grip tight on the banister. </p><p>“I can do this,” Ed says, voice ringing with a defensiveness that edges on panic even in his own ear. </p><p>“So do it,” Roy gestures to the stretch of stairs before them, “If it’s so easy, just do it.” His eyes glacial cold and the stare he levels Ed with is like getting his face blasted with ultra fine diamond dust. </p><p>Ed pinches the tip of his tongue between his tightly clenched teeth, working the unforgiving edge painfully against the muscle. He can do this. </p><p>He draws his elbow up again and pulls himself, crawling up the stairs. His stump catches again and this time it hurts enough that he see stars. He jerks back reflexively and slides painfully against the wall again. He can feel his heartbeat slamming against his eyelids and he’s sweating. It <em>hurts</em>. </p><p>“Let me help you,” Roy says, unforgiving like an order. </p><p>“Go fuck yourself, Mustang,” Ed grits out. </p><p>“I’ll drag you if I have to,” Roy threatens “And neither of us will enjoy that.” </p><p>Ed can’t answer, the pounding in his head is too loud. He cracks his eyes open and looks up the stairs again. It’s so far and it hurts so badly. </p><p>“I can do it,” he says and even he doesn’t believe it. He feels broken.</p><p>“I know you can. So let me <em>help</em> you.” Roy’s voice is softer now, so soft it slips into Ed’s chest and winds its way through his ribcage. There’s no pity, no anger, just a gentle but insistent plea: to let Roy carry some of the pain, to let him lighten the load. Bitterness still stings the back of Ed’s throat and tightens his joints. He wants to lash out, kick his good leg against Roy’s knee and let him trip down the stairs so he could feel the indignity. He wants to make Roy hate him, anything to force him to let Ed alone. Anything to get the heat of his gaze off his paltry wretched skin. But, he doesn’t have it in him. He doesn’t have anything in him except exhaustion and disgust. He rights himself as best he can, turning over to get his ass on the stair. He reaches out to Roy.</p><p>Roy takes his arm and gets him back up on his feet. He wobbles and grabs at the banister to keep from falling. Roy’s grip on his arm tightens and he moves like he’s ready to catch Ed if his leg gives out. </p><p>“I’m going to pick you up, all right?” As he stabilizes, Roy levels him with an interrogative look like he expects Ed to hiss or lash out. But Ed doesn’t have any fight left in him, feeling too feeble and loathsome to make a fuss. His damned stump pulses with ache, throbbing with each breath. He nods. </p><p>Roy steps closer and puts his hand on Ed’s hip to hold him steady. Ed standing on the stair above him makes it easier to leverage him against Roy’s chest. Ed isn’t a sack of potatoes, so he puts his arm around Roy’s shoulders and strains himself up into Roy’s arms as they guide his legs around Roy’s waist. The stump of his thigh rests against Roy’s hip and the fourteen year old Ed cringes inside -- how many times did that Ed have this fantasy, to be folded up in Roy Mustang’s arm. To be quite literally swept off his feet. What a disappointing perversion. They’re close enough that Roy can probably feel Ed’s heart beating out of his chest between them. Ed can smell the musk of Roy’s cologne and what was such a sweet comfort at the hospital has soured. Heat is radiating off Roy’s body and into Ed’s splintered bones. He hates it. He hates this moment. His throat tightens and his eyes sting.</p><p>Ed curls his arm tight around Roy and hides his face against his shoulder. Roy holds him with one hand on his hip and the other under his complete thigh and takes him upstairs. </p><p>Ed squeezes his eyes tight, like if he can seal them tight enough the tears of frustration won’t leak out. They reach the landing, but Roy doesn’t set him down yet. He takes him into the bedroom, nudging the door open with his foot. There, gingerly, he sets Ed down on the edge of the bed and Ed relaxes his vice grip on Roy’s shoulders. Roy leans over him as Ed shifts back on to the bed, hand on Roy’s shoulders to stabilize himself. </p><p>He wants to say thanks, wants to say sorry, but his voice is caught in his throat and he can’t seem to choke it out. He can’t bring himself to look at Roy and see pity and disgust reflected back at him. His face is hot and wet and he can feel himself getting puffy around the eyes. Now he looks stupid <em>and</em> pathetic. </p><p>Something brushes Ed’s cheek and he turns toward it instinctively, realizing a fraction too late that it’s Roy’s hand stroking up his cheek to push flyaway hair trapped in the moisture of his tears. He smoothly tucks the hair behind his ear and lingers. Now Ed can’t stop looking, watching the carefully managed expression on Roy’s face and the shadow of his eyes. There’s something there Ed doesn’t recognize, which means it probably isn’t pity. He feels totally disarmed (ha) by such a brief touch, it shocks a breath into him which is all the preparation he gets for the oncoming flood.</p><p>The realization washes over him, as salty bitter and undeniable as the tide: he had never gotten over it. Never gotten over <em>him</em>. He just accepted that Roy would never be interested so he shouldn’t even try. He wanted, wanted so badly but couldn’t bear the loss of rejection so he told himself he had let it go. That he didn’t care, that he wasn’t waiting. He’s been carrying this want around for years, would probably die with its weight on his shoulders. Knuckles sweep back down his cheek and a thumb skirts just below his eye and Ed stares, mouth agape, into Roy’s unreadable face. </p><p>There’s a perfect moment where Roy stays, holding Ed’s face with the gentle frame of his hand and the way he looks at him makes Ed feel truly terrifyingly seen. </p><p>Then the moment ends. </p><p>“I’ll stay home tomorrow, so we can see about getting you that replacement,” Roy says, taking his hand away so quickly Ed wonders if he just imagined it. </p><p>“...All right,” Ed’s voice manages, very softly, but Ed doesn’t remember cosigning that statement. </p><p>“All right. Goodnight, Ed.” Roy’s hand flexes, an aborted gesture that Ed might have liked to have seen brought to fruition. And then he’s gone.</p><p>“G’night,” Ed says to an empty room as Roy quickly exits. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: pain, negative self talk re: disability  </p><p>We're turning the UST volume up this chapter, folks, so get ready for lots of steamy eye contact and not much else!!! Thank you again for all the lovely comments and kudos, I appreciate every one! It might be two weeks instead of one for the next chapter, but I will endeavour to make it worth the wait!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roy gets up before Ed the following morning and plays a little bit of telephone tag. He calls Pinako Rockbell, who twists his gentlemanly arm into chatting for several more minutes that is strictly necessary. She asks how Ed is, how bad the accident was, if they’d heard from Winry and Al, would Ed benefit from exam from her, was he well enough to travel, had Roy been able to convince him to get at least one glass of milk down, could she speak the the hospital mechanic, and several other tangentially related questions. Eventually he was able to ask what information they might need to take to a local mechanic as well as what sorts of questions he should ask to make sure Ed got an appropriate replacement. He thanked her and fielded several more questions about Ed’s well being and Roy’s marital status before he was able to hang up the phone. </p><p>After that he called the local mechanic and swapped information with him about Ed’s needs and the availability in his stock. He promised to have something suitable delivered to Roy’s home before the end of the week. The gentle sounding old man on the end of the line pointed out that while the information Roy provided was extremely helpful, a brief exam would ensure Ed got the most appropriate placement. Roy gave him his billing information and thanked him, and said he would try to get Ed to the workshop but the nature of his condition made that outcome less than foreseeable. The man was very nice and said he could sort something out without an exam and that his workshop would be available for them to drop by whenever. </p><p>Then he called Riza at home and told her he’d be taking one of those sick days he’d heard people whisper about around the office, so if she could manage the office on her own for the day, he would sign off on whatever she needed. She didn’t fuss, though she did ask very softly ‘how is he?’ and Roy never cherished her more. </p><p>Roy puts coffee on, but when the smell doesn’t coax Ed out of his hibernative den, Roy lingers in the kitchen in his pajamas to think. When he received the call about Ed's automail from the physiotherapist, his stomach dropped down, right through the floor, to the center of the Earth. He barely remembered anything between getting the phone call and being at the hospital, which was concerning because he’d driven himself. In his memory it was like those two moments were spliced together: getting the phone call and coming into the exam room to meet Ed’s stricken expression. </p><p>He swirls the dregs of his coffee cup. Ed was perhaps one of the most expressive people Roy had ever known, the way his muscles pinched and contorted to broadcast his feelings. It was raw and powerful and Roy envied him. Roy had been so closely guarded, so controlled, a trait born out of political necessity, for so long that he didn’t think he was capable of transmitting his feelings so brazenly. The expression Ed had shown him the night before continues to rise, unbidden, in Roy’s mind. Ed’s eyes bright with his flyaway hairs sticking to his flushed cheeks. Looking at Roy and <em>seeing him</em>. There was an eagerness inside that moment, a willingness. That moment was like a thread, so thin and fine it could be gossamer, connecting them. A delicate hand could coil that strand and close the gap between them. A tender touch could hold that moment without shattering it.</p><p>Roy's hands weren’t delicate. They were ashen and bloodsoaked. They were hands made for killing precious things.</p><p>So, he let that moment alone. </p><p>The morning whittles on and Ed doesn’t put in appearance so Roy decides it’s time for a wake up call. He knocks, but Ed doesn’t answer. He pushes the door open, expecting to find Ed asleep. </p><p>Instead, he’s rolled on his left side, which can’t be comfortable for his injured leg. He’s hugging himself with his remaining arm, fingers trailing across the exposed automail port. His eyes are open, but far away. </p><p>“I knocked,” Roy announces and that seems to bring Ed back to their shared realm. </p><p>“Oh, didn’t hear, sorry,” Ed says, groggy, his fingers quickly abandoning the port as he jerkily pulls himself up. He turns his torso slightly, to shield the port from Roy’s direct line of sight. Roy had no reference for how intimate a moment he may have walked in on. Could he feel anything through the port? Was it painful? Pleasurable? Mentally, he flattened that thought with the booted heel of his renewed abjuration. </p><p>“I called the mechanic. He can have something for you soon, but he’ll need to take a couple measurements of you first. Do you think you’re up for it? We don’t have to go today.” </p><p>Ed blinks at him and Roy allows himself the indulgence of appreciating the flecks of colour in Ed’s eyes: amber, ochre, and a honeyed butterscotch. Perhaps he was less committed to renouncing that traitorous part of his heart than he wanted to be. </p><p>“You called?” Ed asks and Roy nods. There’s something like relief crossing Ed’s face, though Roy can’t imagine why. </p><p>“We can go whenever you feel up for it.” </p><p>“No, ah, no, I can go, just let me.” He twists himself to get his foot on the floor, reaching for his crutch. He’s only wearing boxers and this is not an indulgence Roy feels entitled to so he looks at the floor and clears his throat. </p><p>“There’s no rush, let’s get some breakfast into you first and see how you’re feeling.” Ed isn’t listening though, he’s wobbling across the room on his crutch and trying to rifle through his strewn pile of clothes for some pants. He sways a little on his feet as he tries to snatch some t-shirt or another and Roy is compelled to move forward. </p><p>“Ed, slow down. There’s no rush,” he repeats, putting a hand on Ed’s softer shoulder, “Let me help you before you break another limb.” </p><p>Ed levels him with a glare, that he deserves, but stops trying to dive head first into his overnight bag. He angles his chin defiantly and Roy has the good grace to stifle his sigh. </p><p>“Just sit down, will you? I’m not above pushing you.” Ed looks affronted, but he drops his posturing and sits back down on the edge of the bed, putting his crutch aside. </p><p>Roy makes a quick selection from Ed’s clothes -- something that doesn’t look dirty or too rumbled. There isn’t much in the way of colour, almost all of Ed’s clothes are black. He lays them out on the bed as Ed watches, uncharacteristically quiet. It’s weird, there’s no griping or backtalk. It makes Roy want to put a hand on his forehead and check his temperature. He shouldn’t do that though, least of all because he values his fingers and Ed’s teeth are sharp.</p><p>“Are you just gonna stand there and make sure I don’t smother myself in my jeans or what?” Ed finally snaps. Well, at least his hostility bone isn’t broken. </p><p>“Right, sorry.” Roy starts to make for the door, then hesitates, “Are you sure you don’t need a hand?” Nurses had helped dress Ed at the hospital, Roy knew, and that was when he had two working hands. </p><p>“I fucking have <em>one</em>, Mustang,” Ed says, but there’s no heat to it. He’s making quick work of the shirt, getting it up over one shoulder and letting gravity do most of the work from that point. But the fabric catches on bolts holding his metal shoulders in place and Roy’s hand just slips. Across the room, carried by his traitious feet, back to Ed’s side to tug the garment down over his back. Ed holds still and levels Roy with a truly venomous glare. Roy holds his hands up defensively. </p><p>“Sorry, terribly sorry,” he says. He’s overstepping. Ed already feels sorely about last night, he doesn’t need Roy rubbing it in. “I just meant, you don’t have to struggle -- if you need the help. I don’t mind.”</p><p>Ed’s glare takes on an appraising edge, where his eyes narrow and his lips purse and Roy is thankful his lips aren’t as treasonous as his hands have revealed themselves to be. He waits patiently for Ed to tell him to get the fuck out of his room and mind his own fucking business. </p><p>“Fine,” Ed says, picking up his jeans and shoving them at Roy, “Might as well make you useful for once.” </p><p>Roy blinks, holding the well worn faded denim in his hands before catching up and letting his face slip into a withering look, “I live to serve.” </p><p>“There’s a dog joke in there somewhere,” Ed says, lifting his leg off the floor and shaking it at Roy expectantly, “Now, put your master’s pants on.” </p><p>Roy’s shoulders rise and fall around the deep breath that he hopes looks vexed rather than aroused, before he drops down onto one knee in front of Ed and helps put his complete leg into the pants. He gingerly tugs the denim up over Ed’s amputated leg, though Ed overrides his handiwork with a rough pull and shimmy accompanied by a wince. Ed puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes back against him to get the leverage needed to hike the garment up his hips. The empty leg hangs limp over the edge of the bed and Roy takes to the bottom of it, cuffing it several times over to shorten it. When he’s satisfied he takes a safety pin from Ed’s bedside and pins the leg closed. </p><p>When he looks up, Ed is watching him. There’s a hint of that expression he’d had last night. Not as soft, not as vulnerable, but with undeniable heat. Roy needs to work quickly if he wants to smother the spark. </p><p>“Breakfast?” He says </p><p>“Oh, fuck yeah, I’m starving,” Ed says and it’s gone. He wrestles himself up on a crutch and Roy marks off another day in his mind without a forest fire. </p><p>-- </p><p>After Ed scarfs down a wheelbarrow full of scrambled eggs and bacon, they manage to make it to the mechanic’s workshop. Wilfred is an older man who looks like a marginally more masculine version of Pinako: small, grey-haired, bespectacled and reeking of tobacco. He’s also so extremely gentle that it sort of puts Ed on edge. His hands are silky soft with wrinkles and cold as ice, Ed has to repress a bone deep shiver each time his chilly digits skirt the lengths and widths of his back and arms. Roy stands in the doorway, with his arms folded across his chest and looking at the floor as Ed sits on the work table in nothing but his shorts. </p><p>They go back to Roy’s townhouse afterwards and the chill has settled under Ed’s skin all the way down to the bone. It’s like a broken ice flow surging and jamming under his skin, cracking, and every time he moves he can feel it catching and fissuring. When they get back in, Roy doesn’t comment when Ed beelines for the den and buries himself under several blankets and entrenches himself around <em>Rosicrucian Aphorisms and Process</em>. If he can distract his brain enough maybe his skin will stop trying to vibrate its way to another plane. </p><p>This happens sometimes, Ed’s noticed it before. It was the worst before Al got his body back. Ed would have this bone deep ache to be close to him, like he was freezing from the inside and no fire could heat him. There was a buzz to it, like dry ice gyrating in a glass, so hard and sharp it was like a sting. He’d try to compensate by knocking around with Al’s armour or sleeping wedged up against Al’s side. But it wasn’t the same, and he’d end up soothing the ache by staying in the shower until the water ran frigid. Once, Al offered him a kitten, saying ‘you look like you need a snuggle, Brother’ and Ed complained as loudly as he could about what a rotten fleabag Al was forcing on him. But then the stupid thing fell asleep against Ed’s chest and Ed took his glove off his flesh hand to pet its head very gently and the ache subsided for a while. </p><p>When he got his body back, all Ed ever needed to do was drape himself over his perfect-angel baby brother and Al would laugh and say he was heavy and the warmth of him would leech into Ed’s bones. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even have to do that because Al would just come snuggle up with him on the couch and they’d read together until Al fell asleep and Ed carried him to bed, making sure to draw the blankets all the way up to his chin. Very rarely, the ache was hotter and lower and Ed would tell Al not to wait up for him. He’d go out to a bar and meet some guy and work the heat out that way. But that didn’t happen often. Mostly because hooking up with strangers was a mixed bag when fifty-five percent of your body was scar tissue and thirty-three percent was iron and copper wiring and the rest was just bitterness and damage. </p><p>The ache now is painful and he knows there’s no salve for it. He feels it most strongly in the joints bordering his automail. The hinge of his groin was so sore, it’s like someone is scraping the soft tissue out from between the bones, so every time he moves the ache flares and spreads down his stumpy leg and up through his abdomen. It hurts and he’s miserable. He had learned a long time ago how to breathe through pain and not let it show on his face. </p><p>Reading doesn’t distract him from the pain, but it puts his surroundings out of mind, so he doesn’t notice what Roy is up to until he smells coffee. He looks up, half way through his reading and sees a cup of coffee left near him on the table. Roy is crouching in front of the fireplace, stacking logs into the hearth. Ed watches as he fishes an ignition glove out of his pocket, tugging it on and then knitting his fingers together to get the material to settle more completely around his fingers. He snaps and flames spark to light, consuming the neat little stack of wood. Warm light bathes Roy’s profile and Ed is transfixed. </p><p>The light catches the highlight of Roy's cheekbones and the broad, flat slope of his nose. His jaw is all sharp angles and Ed wonders what it would be like to taste. If it was as sharp as it seemed or if Roy had it in him to open, soften and be sweet. The fire reflecting in his eyes softens the depth of them from inky jet to dusky chocolate. He remembers the heat radiating out of Roy last night, soaking into Ed’s weary limbs. His anger had squandered the sweetness then, if there had been any to be had. Roy begins to turn back toward him and Ed drops his gaze to the open book before him, not parsing any of the sigils printed on the page.. </p><p>“Anything interesting?” Roy asks, like he hasn’t read this book seven times over, it’s his. </p><p>“Medical math,” Ed says, attributing the rising warmth in his face to the introduction of a lit fire. He traces the outlines of the metallic water diagrams, “You should lend it to Al when he gets back.” </p><p>Roy hums a thoughtful note as he settles himself in the armchair perpendicular to the couch with the day’s newspaper in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. It takes Ed another moment to relax into the companionable scene that’s unfolded around him. The coffee helps. </p><p>-- </p><p>Roy manages to beg off the last of his work the following evening by laying it on a little thick when he tells Riza how Ed is getting along without his arm. Ed is at physio and wouldn’t it be nice if he could pick him up instead of Ed having to cab home alone with a stranger. Poor thing, he was such a trooper, really putting on a brave face. He can tell from the steely glint in her eye that she knows he’s full of shit, but she concedes the point anyways, tucking several thick dossiers into his briefcase. </p><p>Roy arrives at the hospital early, easily navigating his way to the physical therapy wing. Several nurses wave and he puts on his best charming grin for them, sparing the occasional wink -- it’s the least he can do for the city’s devoted front line workers. When he arrives at the observation area just outside the therapy studio, he can see Ed is still in the middle of his session. His doctor, Dr. Eleonora Rossi, is also observing, holding a chart open on a clipboard. She’s a severe looking woman, probably in her fifties, with neatly braided salt and pepper hair and thick, round full frame glasses perched high on the bridge of her nose. </p><p>“Good evening, Doctor,” Roy says, sidling up beside her. </p><p>“Brigadier-General,” Dr. Rossi says, looking at him sideways, “I’ve noticed Mister Elric is short another limb since I released him into your care.” The exasperation is palpable. </p><p>“Don’t let him hear you calling him short, I don’t think brain aneurysms are your speciality.”  </p><p>She levels a perteruped eyebrow at him and he smiles at her sunnily. She doesn’t look impressed, which only bruises his ego a little. </p><p>They both turn their attention to where Ed’s physical therapist is guiding Ed through a series of stretches. Kyrie Driscoll had a good foot of height on Ed and easily twice the muscle mass. They reminded Roy a little of Alex, in that they were a large presence in any room they entered, but had a naturally gentle disposition. Kyrie is kneeling over Ed where he is laid out on a mat, guiding Ed through a series of stretches that require him to lift his complete leg up to his chest. They relax the position and sit back, saying something to Ed that made him visibly scoff and wave his hand. Ed’s gaze drifts toward the observation window and his line of sight meets with Roy’s. There was a minute shift in his expression that prompts Kyrie to turn and look as well, their face folding into a playful smile bordering on smug. They gesture, waving for Roy to come into the workspace. </p><p>“I’ll take your coat for you, General.” Dr. Rossi offers her hand and Roy naturally defers to her, not exactly sure what he’s getting himself into. He hands her his jacket and tries not to read into the pleased curl at the edges of her lips. He enters the workspace, which is empty but for Ed and Kyrie. </p><p>“General,” Kyrie calls, their voice carrying easily across the room, “I was just lecturing Ed here about completing his home exercises.” </p><p>“I’m <em>doing</em> them,” Ed interjects, glaring up at Kyrie from where he’s spread out on the mat. He’s wearing loose cotton shorts that are pinned closed around his amputation and a sleeveless shirt that leaves his automail port exposed. It gaps wide enough at the sides that Roy can see his ribs and the hatchwork of scar tissue old and new that decorates him. Sweat has stuck flyaway hairs to his forehead and the length of his hair is drawn back in a tight ponytail. </p><p>“You’re doing them <em>unassisted</em>. Which is how you hurt yourself, or tear your stitches, or worse,” Kyrie chides, their friendly face turning stern. Ed glowers back but doesn’t protest. Kyrie’s round face turns back to Roy and reorients itself into a kind smile. </p><p>“Like I was saying, Ed needs to do these stretches with someone, or he could hurt himself more than he heals.” </p><p>“Alright,” Roy says, diplomatically, “How can I assist? Should I be supervising?” Watching Ed do stretches from the safe distance of the observation room was as close as Roy was really comfortable being. All the sweating and grunting and cursing did far too much to his heart rate to really be permissible. </p><p>“Something a little more hands on,” Kyrie says, shuffling back on the mat, “Take your shoes off and get in here.” </p><p>Ed coughs loudly and his leg jerks back reflexively. </p><p>“Excuse me?” Roy says, which he thinks is rather polite because he brain offers <em>in where, exactly?</em>  </p><p>“I’ll show you how to do it, now take your shoes off.” Kyrie pats the space on the mat they had previously occupied, between Ed’s legs. He looks at Ed for permission, but Ed is looking at the ceiling like it has a complete calculation of pi printed on it. He looks back at Kyrie who grins blazingly at him and his shoulders drop into a shrug. He toes out of his dress shoes and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. </p><p>“Great,” Kyrie says, “Now, on your knees, yes, just like that.” </p><p>They guide Roy on to one knee and put Ed’s leg in his hands. Ed has very fine blonde leg hair that turns coarse around his knee. The brace is strapped tight around his healing fractures and Roy wonders if he touched the length of his leg if he could find the pins that have been embedded in bone there. Kyrie fit one of Roy’s hands just below Ed’s knee on the back of his thigh and the other on the kneecap itself. </p><p>“Great, now push forward gently. He has a tendency to overextend because he likes to think he’s so damn flexible.” </p><p>“I <em>am</em> flexible,” Ed chimes in hotly, eyes still on the ceiling.</p><p>“Yeah, alright hotstuff, we know,” Kyrie says, openly amused as Ed huffs, “Put the weight of your pelvis to the back of his thigh and use the momentum to push the muscle forward, as gradually as you can.” </p><p>Roy swallows a pearl of stress and steels himself to follow the instructions. He’s stiff, but slow moving, putting some weight behind the push of his hips and guiding Ed’s leg up. He can feel the swell of Ed’s ribcage as he draws in a deep breath and adjusts to the pressure. Behind them, Kyrie stands and begins to circle them, watching Roy’s form. </p><p>Ed’s still not looking at him, but the further forward Roy pushes the pinker around the cheeks he becomes. When his thigh is nearly parallel with his torso, Roy pauses, hand still poised on the sculpted musculature of Ed’s thigh. He does his best to hold his back straight and keep a respectable distance between their bodies, but Roy isn’t nearly as flexible as Ed is so he can feel strain beginning to form in his lower back. It’s comfortable to let Ed take some of the weight and he doesn’t seem to struggle or strain under it. </p><p>“Is that alright?” Roy says, and that finally earns him a glance from Ed. Roy can see the movement just beyond Ed’s closed lips where he’s rolling his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. </p><p>“Little further,” Ed says, putting his gaze squarely back on the roof. Roy chances a glance toward Kyrie, who’s standing at the edge of the mat with their hand pressed over their mouth to mask a giddy smirk. Roy does his best to feign nonchalance even as his heart slams against his ribcage and threatens to burst out and spray Ed macabre red. He pushes Ed’s leg further toward his chest until he meets resistance and Ed <em>groans</em> as his eyes slide shut. A low brief sound that escapes barely parted lips and reverberates through Roy’s soul. </p><p>“Breathe through it,” Kyrie says and it takes Roy a moment to realize they’re talking to Ed, not him. Ed exhales and goes lax, releasing whatever tension he’d been holding on to and his thigh inches closer to his chest. Gilded curtains of lashes barely rise as Ed settles his eyes on Roy and Roy’s stomach plummets. The sliver of gold watching him is inscrutable and probing, flitting over Roy’s expression and lingering on his mouth. Roy’s slamming heartbeat stutters as Ed has the gall to wet his lips with the briefest peek of shy pink tongue. Roy’s sweating behind his knees. </p><p>“That’s excellent,” Kyrie says and Roy has to stop himself from volunteering, <em>isn't it just? </em></p><p>He relaxes and pulls back marginally faster than he’d leaned forward. His hands drift further down the length of Ed’s leg as his hold relaxes and Ed is still watching him. Roy looks away first, to Kyrie. Who is watching them with unrepressed glee. Roy is certain his face is a stoic wall of professionalism as he says, “Is there another position you’d like to see?” </p><p>Their eyes gleam briefly, then they contain themselves “Yes, actually,” they say, “Take Ed’s other leg and—“ </p><p>Ed wrenches himself up onto his elbow, “He doesn’t have to—“ </p><p>“It is vitally important that you exercise your left leg, Ed. And it's twice as important that someone help you do it.” The playfulness is dead and gone, and Kyrie wields their severity like a hammer.  Ed’s face freezes, contorts and then yields. He’s furious, but it’s an argument he knows he can’t win. He <em>fwumps</em> back down onto the mat and continues to glare harshly skyward. </p><p>Kyrie still has their eyes narrowed in Ed’s direction — clearly the two of them have had this argument before. Finally they turn their attention back to Roy. </p><p>Under careful instruction and staunch nonparticipation from Ed, Roy gingerly modifies his previous hold for Ed’s amputated leg. He has one hand braced above Ed’s knee, the curve from his forefinger to his thumb circling the cap of bone. He can feel several thick bolts fixing the bone in place and protruding through the skin under the fabric of Ed’s shorts. His other hand Kyrie had corrected after his original placement high on Ed’s thigh. </p><p>“He’s still feeling quite a bit of pain here, even if he acts like it’s fine,” they say, pushing Roy’s hand further up Ed’s leg to grip him through his groin. Ed gives the smallest flinch under him, but his upward gaze doesn’t waver. His mouth is a hard, scowling line. Kyrie rolls their eyes. </p><p>Kyrie backs away again to watch Roy’s form as he moves tentatively forward. Ed puts on a good front, but Roy knows the amputation embarrasses him on some level. He obscures it from view at every opportunity, draping a blanket over it if Roy joins him in the den or turning his body away reflexively if Roy comes upon him unexpectedly. Roy had wondered if it was a defensive reaction, but he’s beginning to realize it’s more than that — something like shame. Ed carries the tension in his eyes, which are as dark and incensed as Roy can ever remember seeing them. He closes them as Roy begins to push slowly forward, guiding the leg up towards Ed’s chest. It’s stiff, slow, and Roy can immediately feel that Ed’s range of motion is limited. The leg is barely raised to a perpendicular angle before Ed tenses and inhales sharply through his nose. Roy can feel the throb of muscle where his hand is wedged in Ed’s groin. Roy tightens his grip, pushing his thumb against taut tendons and air rushes out of Ed’s lungs, his mouth opening around a recognizable sigh of relief. </p><p>Kyrie makes an approving noise somewhere behind him, but Roy is looking at Ed. Pain puts tension in his temples and wrinkles between his eyebrows. He’s hurting and determined not to show it. Roy determined some time ago that he would shoulder and abate any hurt the world flung in Edward Elric’s direction. </p><p><em>It’s okay to say it hurts</em>, he thinks loudly, <em>just because you can carry it doesn’t mean it’s not heavy</em>. </p><p>They hold the position until Ed’s eyes open, locking with Roy’s. There’s hunger and heat in the look, but Roy steels himself against it, forcing a vacant look onto his face. There’s a twitch between Ed’s eyebrows and Roy recognizes something like anger in his eyes. </p><p>Kyrie guides them through a handful more stretches and when Ed leaves to change into his street clothes, they give Roy a booklet detailing which stretches Ed should do regularly. There’s a little note scribbled in the inside flap: <em>keep him limber - k. d</em>. It’s punctuated by a little doodle of a winking smiley face. </p><p>The drive home is tense, with Ed sullenly looking out the window and digging his remaining foot at the floor mat to outlet the irritation. </p><p>“...Is there someone else you would like to help you with your physio?” Roy says as they reach the halfway point of the drive and Ed still hasn’t spoken a word. </p><p>“What?” Comes the response, the consonants jumping out of his throat as he flicks his head around to stare at Roy. His ponytail whips the window behind him. </p><p>“You just seem uncomfortable,” Roy says, keeping his eyes on the road, “And while I agree it’s important to do your exercises as instructed, you should be comfortable while doing them.” He passes his hands over the steering wheel to glide the automobile into a turn. “I could ask Riza, she’d be happy to. Or Alex. He could regale you with poetry about your muscles all the while, he’d probably relish it.” He hopes a joke will break Ed’s seething aura. </p><p>Ed’s silent treatment resumes, but the energy around it cools. He keeps looking at Roy, but for both their sakes Roy keeps his gaze on the road. Roy gets them several more blocks before he speaks.</p><p>“It’s fine. I’m not uncomfortable.” He crosses his arm over his chest haltingly, like he’s forgotten he doesn’t have the second limb with which to create a barrier. He ends up just covering the place where his automail port is obscured by his shirt. </p><p>Roy doesn’t believe him for a second, but short of calling him a liar there isn’t much to be done about it. </p><p>“All right,” he says, not bothering to mask his skepticism, which is enough to make Ed bristle in his direction, “if you change your mind, that’s okay.” </p><p>Ed digs the toe of his boot at the floor mat again, kicking up the edge of it. He looks out the window again and it’s a long, tense moment as he sorts out what he’s feeling. Roy can practically hear the cogs in his head turning.</p><p>“...if it’s you, it’s okay,” he finally says, softer than Roy expects. A quick glance in his direction reveals the flushed curve of Ed’s ear peeking out from behind the drape of his bangs. </p><p>Roy’s chest pangs, pulses and his hands clench around the steering wheel to keep from reaching across to put his hand on Ed’s knee. </p><p>“All right,” Roy says when he’s certain he can keep the words as neutral as they should be. </p><p>—</p><p>Doing physio at Roy’s was easier than Ed expected. That first session at the hospital, Ed was so flustered that he couldn’t bear to look at Roy while they went through the positions. When he’d managed to chance a glance the look on Roy’s face had been indecipherable if maybe a little embarrassed, too. The careful distance that Roy projected with that face felt so frustratingly like a rejection that Ed had seethed for some time afterwards. There was a burgeoning intimacy building between them the longer they lived in the same space, and for Roy to show him such a controlled expression while he was feeling so humiliated and physically uncomfortable was challenging. He felt a little bad in the car after; Roy thought Ed was uncomfortable, like he didn’t want Roy to touch him or something -- which wasn’t the complete truth. He didn’t not want Roy to touch him... hrm. </p><p>At Roy’s though, it was easier. Maybe it had something to do with the familiar space or how easy it was once they were unobserved, but it is less than a day before they transition to daily stretches. Roy all but drags Ed out of bed before he has to go into HQ and Ed groggily lifts his legs and aligns his spine and tries not to fall back asleep while Roy bends him in half. If Ed doesn’t have physio with Kyrie at the hospital, they repeat some exercises before dinner when Roy gets home. Kyrie keeps asking if Roy has a ‘favourite position’ and Ed keeps trying to bean them with his crutch. </p><p>The pain is becoming more manageable, but there are rough spots. The ache at night is the worst. </p><p>Tonight, he finally manages to drift off, despite the nagging ache in his stump. What feels like a heartbeat later he jerks awake, cold and wet and riddled with spears. His ears ring with Melanie’s screams. Just a dream. He tosses and turns as he tries to convince himself, but all that accomplishes is a fresh flare of pain across his body, forming a pit of cramping pain in his groin and knee. Eventually, he just can’t stand it anymore and he reaches out in the dark to fumble for his crutch. He’ll get up and stretch, maybe read until he can’t keep his eyes open, anything to get his mind off the mind numbing ache -- he reaches for the crutch and it tips away from him and out of reach, taking the bedside lamp with it in a cacophonous crash. The lamp doesn’t appear to be broken, but Ed freezes, ears trained for other sounds in the house. He hopes he hasn’t woken Roy, he has to work in the morning and if Ed has to watch him drag his under-caffeinated corpse out the door in the morning and know it’s <em>his</em> fault, he’ll-- there’s the unmistakable bang and shuffle from across the hall and Ed curses under his breath. </p><p>Roy opens the door without knocking, a hand in his housecoat pocket probably with an ignition glove in his grasp. </p><p>“Ed, are you alright?” he says, voice lowered to a nighttime hush. </p><p>“Yeah, I’m fine, I just, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Ed says sheepishly, embarrassed dread dredging his stomach. He tries to lean out of the bed and grab at his crutch, “I just can’t sleep, I’m fine.”</p><p>Roy’s shoulders slacken and he takes his hand out of his pocket, gloveless. He comes over to the side of the bed and picks up Ed’s crutch for him. </p><p>“What’s keeping you up,” it’s barely a question because the bastard knows exactly why he can’t sleep. </p><p>“S’fine,” Ed mutters, taking the crutch and starting to haul himself up with it, “Go back to bed.” </p><p>“You can’t stretch it properly without my help,” Roy says, bending over to pick up the upended lamp. He sets it back on the bedside and then begins to shrug out of his housecoat. He’s wearing his stupid striped pajama set that hangs so flatteringly over his shoulders. The collar is loose enough that it’s practically a piped frame for the dip of his sternum and when he leans forward to toss his housecoat over the end of the bed, Ed can see down the length of his torso. Moonlight cutting through the curtains makes his skin glow serene white and Ed has to tear his gaze to focus on Roy’s eyes -- which does very little to abate his rising pulse. </p><p>There are bags under Roy’s eyes and he looks tired. Weariness carves the lines of his face even as he shows Ed a conciliatory smile and Ed’s heart twangs with guilt. There had been less sniping at one another over dinner than usual too, that made Ed wonder if he’d had a bad day... Roy almost never talks about work outside of petty complaints. Ed doesn’t push because he doesn’t want Roy to think he’s being nosy, but maybe he could stand to push a little. </p><p>“Don’t worry about it, really, I’m just cold. I’ll move around a bit and I’ll get tired,” Ed gets his foot under him but the change in orientation sends another pulse of pain through his crippled leg and he can’t repress the wince. Roy’s mouth drops at one corner and the eyebrow on the opposite corner of his face arches in an exacting judgement. </p><p>“The longer we argue about this, the longer neither of us are sleeping. So, let’s get to it, shall we?” He begins rolling up his sleeves. </p><p>Ed vents the frustration building in his chest by releasing a sizable sigh, but he drops back onto the bed all the same. He puts the crutch aside and rolls over, laying on his more complete leg and exposing his back to Roy. Roy leans over the bed and secures one hand firmly on Ed’s hip, the other taking his stump just above the knee. They’ve gotten so used to doing this in the last couple days, it’s beginning to feel perfunctory. Roy’s hold settles and Ed is tired enough that he relaxes naturally into it. Roy begins to draw the leg back towards himself and Ed’s next sigh drops in tenor part way through, rumbling into a groan that reverberates through his chest. He can feel the stretch through his groin and down the length of his leg. Sometimes, when he’s in the throes of a stretch like this, he can feel the phantom flex all the way down to his long gone foot. He can imagine the pop-crack of rotating his ankle and the phantom limb aches with longing. </p><p>Roy holds his thigh back from his body and waits for Ed to relax in his hold. His fingers are firm, especially on his hip. Ed does not think about the implied difference in their proportional sizes knowing how completely his hip bone fits in the width of Roy’s palm. Because they’re practically the same size and he’ll put the screws to anyone that says otherwise. </p><p>The stretch helps, but he needs a little more, he can feel an absent ache in the joint. “Can you...?” he begins to say and Roy hums quietly and pushes the thigh forward. Heat spreads over Ed’s back as Roy comes closer, partially leaning on him to complete the stretch. The hand on Ed’s knee moves around to the back of his thigh to support him as he brings the severed leg as high up as he can stand. The closeness and warmth that radiates from Roy’s skin into Ed’s bones is what draws the next breath out of him. The lonely ache that runs deeper than tissue activates and as Roy’s palm slides up his short-clad thigh to support Ed in the stretch, he wants to cover it with his own and pull Roy down into the bed with him. It’s like every inch of his skin is itching from beneath and his lower back answers the proximity of Roy’s body by arching forward, flexing his hips under Roy’s hand. </p><p>“All right?” Roy asks, the timber of his voice low and comforting and the ache settles in Ed’s chest. He’s glad he’s facing away from Roy because he can’t stop his face from pinching around his bone deep want. </p><p>“Yeah,” Ed manages, shifting his hips, “Just a little further.” Roy adjusts his hold again, and his hand settles on the intimate expanse of skin high on Ed’s hamstring and pushes Ed’s leg a few degrees further toward his torso. The stretch borders on uncomfortable, but Roy’s hold on his hip tightens and that relieves some of the pressure. The rush of air that comes from Ed’s lungs is concentrated relief and the tension begins to leech from his mangled stump. Roy patiently holds the stretch for him until he senses that Ed is done. He begins to take his hands away and the chilly rush of loneliness replaces them. The breath Ed draws in is icy cold and tension begins to seep into his joints again. </p><p>Roy stands back up to his full height and there’s some shuffling from the beside, but Ed doesn’t roll over to watch. He tries to center himself, think warm thoughts and let himself be tired. Then a weight settles over him and the mattress dips next to him. He turns to watch Roy pull a quilt over the top of the duvet, turning it down over Ed’s shoulder. He’s sat on the bed next to Ed, his hip perilously close to Ed’s back. </p><p>“What,” Ed says, dumbfounded “Are you doing?” </p><p>“You said you were cold.” Roy is adjusting one of the pillows at the head of the bed, propping it up against the headboard like he’s going to sit there for a minute. “Now, go to sleep.” </p><p>How is Ed supposed to sleep with Roy just... sitting there. He hunkers down, fisting the duvet and quilt and tugging them sharply over his shoulder. Even this close, warmth seems to radiate from Roy’s body across Ed’s shoulders and through his back to his ribs. There’s a whisper of fabric as Roy shifts and settles, like he’s draping the blankets over his lap and crossing his arms over his chest. Ed can hear him breathing very softly. It’s nice. It’s comfortable. And eventually his heart gives up its vivace tempo and he feels relaxed enough to roll over and peer up at Roy from his strategically bunched bedspread. The moonlight coming through the curtains is enough to illuminate Roy’s face; his eyes are closed and his head is tipped back, the ebony fan of his eyelashes are practically sparkling and his stupid handsome face was so damn relaxed. His bangs have fallen away from his face and his skin looks so damn creamy that maybe Ed could stomach dairy just this once. </p><p>Ed wants to kiss him. </p><p>“Go to sleep, Edward.” The bastard didn’t even need to open his eyes. </p><p>“Don’t get a crick in your neck, old man,” Ed shoots back, because it was better than<em> I’ve loved you since I was fourteen</em> or <em>have you ever kissed a cripple? </em></p><p>Roy unfolds his arms and Ed flinches as he settles a palm just below the silver wing of his automail shoulder. Roy hand lingers there, injecting warmth and comfort directly into Ed’s lungs and his aching lonely meat suit eagerly pumped it around his circulatory system. </p><p>“You've been a pain in my neck for the better part of a decade. Don't start worrying about it now. Close your eyes. Go to sleep.” </p><p>Ed scoffs, but can’t summon a pithy rebuttal -- maybe something about how Roy couldn’t even remember how long they’d known each other, and wasn’t that sad? It would take some work though and Roy’s hand was warm and heavy and the added blanket was also a comforting weight over his mangled body. He’d come up with something witty in the morning, when he was well caffeinated and Roy’s cowlick was out of control. That was always easy pickings. </p><p>When Ed woke up the next morning, he was still well tucked in under the blankets and a lingering warmth was still diffusing through his shoulders. </p><p>-- </p><p>Friday afternoon Roy gets a call from Erminio, the automail mechanic at the hospital, asking if he and Ed can be available before dinnertime to install Ed’s replacement. Roy gets a time from the man and confirms that the out-patient machinist had received payment from Roy’s accounts and bids Erminio a pleasant afternoon. </p><p>Then he calls Ed at home. The line rings five times before the call connects. </p><p>“Uh, Mustang’s... Roy Mustang’s house?” Comes over the line haltingly. </p><p>Roy has the swallow the burble of laughter that rises in his throat, “Are you certain?” </p><p>“...Oh, fuck off,” Ed snaps back, and Roy can imagine that little frustrated stomp he’d make if he had both legs at his disposal, “What the fuck do you want?” </p><p>“You’ll never get into the secretarial pool with phone etiquette like that Edward, you didn’t even ask if you could take my message.” </p><p>“I’m hanging up.” And from the decreasing volume of his voice, he means it. </p><p>“Wait! Wait!” Riza is scowling at him from her desk, but he can’t keep the laughter out of his voice. </p><p>“What’s the fucking message, Mustang?” Ed barks at him as Roy gestures to the phone for Riza’s benefit and she looks like she’s compiling a top ten list of places his body could be dumped and never found. </p><p>“We have a date--” Roy says, and Riza’s face folds in the most subtle of ways, but Roy has long been able to divinate her exact thoughts at a glance, he waves her off and motions for her to shut his office door. She doesn’t. “--with your mechanic this evening. He’s bringing your new arm around.” </p><p>“Oh, okay, damn, that’s awesome.” </p><p>“I wasn’t sure if you needed time to get your port all gussied up,” Riza’s eye roll has always struck Roy as less of a pirouette of exasperation and more like she was locking eyes directly with God and asking them <em>why</em>. “Maybe clean the cobwebs out of it.” </p><p>“You think you’re pretty fuckin’ funny, don’t’cha?” When had Roy developed the ability to <em>hear</em> Edward Elric’s smile? </p><p>“On occasion.” Roy is twirling the telephone wire around his finger and swinging his chair to face away from the door he would no longer to subjected to Riza’s silent character assassination “The question is, do <em>you</em> think I’m funny?” </p><p>“Funny looking maybe.” That was uncalled for, and took all the whimsy out of Roy’s sails. “Is that it, or did you come up with an excuse to be on the phone longer to avoid, I don’t know, doing your job?”  </p><p>“I’m afraid that I’ve already exceeded the maximum time allotted for personal calls under this totalitarian regime. I suspect I’ll have to make up the offending seconds in forced labour in a camp somewhere.” </p><p>“Maybe if you got your ass moving and actually <em>became</em> Führer--” </p><p>“No political seat trumps the all-seeing hawk’s eye, I’m afraid. Remember me as I was: young, lithe and--” </p><p>“Full of shit, yeah got it, let me make that note for you here,” Ed interrupted and Roy’s face soured into a pout.</p><p>They exchange a round of goodbyes and when Roy turns around, Riza is standing at the edge of his desk. He manages to save his dignity by not physically jumping out of his seat. </p><p>“Edward is getting his replacement automail this evening?” She says, straightening a pile of papers on his desk. </p><p>“Yes, we saw a mechanic last week, lovely gentleman, I’ll have to send him a thank you card.” </p><p>“I understand losing the second limb has been problematic for his mobility, but it would be nice to see him.” The reprimand that exists just behind those words is not lost on Roy and he braces himself for the forthcoming kill shot. </p><p>“It’s not good to keep him cooped up like that.” The <em>for either of you</em> echoed through his skull. It was just like Riza to cut through his closely managed set dressing and get to the real thesis of the piece. He was playing house with Ed. Daily life with Ed; meals together followed evenings by the fire, mornings sprinkled with toast crumbs and pleas for more coffee, the lingering daily comfort that Ed was there at home waiting for Roy. It was a game and if he kept playing it, he would lose. What a darling little fantasy it was, to have bottled a star and kept it all for himself. But, the jar was getting hotter and if he kept handling it, he’d burn himself and raze the whole damn house to the ground. </p><p>“Yes,” he says, lowering his head. Selfishly, he’d been indulging himself, deluding himself that if Ed wanted to get out, do more, that he could and would. He conveniently removed himself from the list of culpable suspects associated with the crime of domesticating Edward Elric. </p><p>“Don’t sulk,” Riza sounded bored, but also like she loved him very much which seemed to be her go-to dichotomy, “Let’s make plans for the weekend. Elicia has been asking for help training their dog.”</p><p>“And you see an opportunity to model an ideal candidate, and a hopeless case?” He gestures to himself. </p><p>“There’s an adage about ‘old dogs’, sir, that I think you might resent.” She was the only person he knew who could smile exclusively with her eyes. </p><p>“I think you’re right. I’ll talk to Ed.” </p><p>“Excellent, sir.” </p><p>The mechanic Erminio arrived at Roy’s doorstep just as Roy was pulling up to the curb. He had tucked under his arm a long wooden box which he insisted on holding even after Roy offered to carry it for him. </p><p>After some key and briefcase shuffling, they entered Roy’s home where Ed was waiting for them. There was a round of greetings with Ed being his own characteristic brand of small-town humble and brash informality that made him the people’s alchemist even after he gave up being state sanctioned. </p><p>They migrated to the den and Erminio monopolized the coffee table with his box. He pried the lid open and inside, nestled in some straw was Ed’s replacement automail. Compared to the Rockbell model, which commanded the same degree of vivacity and stalwartness as Ed himself, it was rather plain. Functional and well crafted, but decidedly ordinary. The bicep was slimmer than Ed’s flesh arm and the jointed elbow was exposed to reveal functionality in a way that the Rockbell model concealed for the sake of aesthetic. Ed and Erminio chatted about the limits of the design -- Ed wouldn’t be running any obstacle courses or completing any gymnastics routines anytime soon, but the missing leg had curtailed those habits. </p><p>“You ready?” Erminio asks, hauling the automail out of its box. It seemed lighter and the range of motion was less dynamic, but it would afford Ed a greater degree of comfort and mobility so it was worth every cen. </p><p>“As I’ll ever be,” Ed says, tugging his shirt up over the automail shoulder and leaving the garment draped across his torso. Erminio kneels in front of Ed where he is sat forward on the couch and anchors the automail into Ed’s exposed port. Roy manages to control his urge to wring his hands and pace nervously. </p><p>The noise Ed makes as his nerves connect with their electric approximations is heart wrenching. He tries to stifle it, but that makes it so much worse, the way pain rises bitter and sharp in his throat and he chokes it back down. He forces his face into a grimace and lifts the automail, testing the range of motion and flexing the fingers. When Erminio is satisfied the connection is secure, he packs up his empty crate and exchanges friendly pleasantries as Roy walks him to the door. </p><p>Returning to the den, Roy catches a glimpse of Ed’s uncensored suffering. He was leaning forward, holding his head in his softer hand. A bottle of pills had materialized onto the coffee table and it lay open, cap abandoned. Roy knew Ed had an opioid prescription, but he so rarely saw him take them. Ed griped about the pain, but only ever coached in playful complaints or his unique brand of facial muscle abuse as they folded his limbs into challenging angles. The other night on the stairs had been the first time Roy had a front row seat to Ed’s unbridaled pain and suffering, and it had been so visceral that Roy had woken up in cold sweat with Ed’s pained howls echoing in his ears. Now was a quieter kind of suffering, like Ed was drawing the fractured pieces of himself tight around a bruised core. He was holding himself together by sheer force of will, like if he held it all together tight enough he could make up for the gaping holes. </p><p>“Do you need anything?” Roy says, as gently as he can. The breath Ed draws in is stark and wet, but when he tosses his bangs back he gives Roy the facsimile of a smile. He sweeps the bottle and cap up in one smooth motion of his flesh hand and tucks them away. </p><p>“Nope, it’s all good. Did you have a plan for dinner?” </p><p>He didn’t, so they order Xingese. Part way through a quiet dinner marked largely by Ed gingerly opening steaming containers with his new automail hand, trying to adjust for the force of pressure, a phone call comes through. </p><p>“Mustang residence,” Roy says, but he isn’t sure his greeting is heard over the exuberant voice coming through the line. </p><p>“Oh, finally! I’m telling you General, these cross-continental lines are deeply unreliable! Gosh, I don’t know how you get any diplomacy done when it takes over an hour to get a darn phone call through!” </p><p>“Good evening, Alphonse, would you like to speak to your brother?”</p><p>“If you haven’t strangled him yet, that would be lovely, sir, thank you.” Was delightfulness an inherited genetic trait? </p><p>Ed had gotten up as soon as Roy had said Alphonse’s name so it wasn’t long before he handed the receiver off to the elder brother. </p><p>“Hey, kid! Where are you? Miss you too.” The smile on Ed’s face touched his eyes but there was a sweet sadness to it. Something like longing, resignation and guilt. Roy stepped away to give them privacy. </p><p>He picked at his fried rice and let his mind wander so he wouldn’t just listen to one half of a brotherly conversation. </p><p>Riza had been right to call him out for keeping Ed all to himself. This was exactly why he had forbidden himself from entertaining the idea of pursuing Ed in the first place. Familiarity and proximity was already beginning to blur the boundaries he’d set for himself. He let him look for several moments at a time, let his hand linger on Ed’s elbow longer than was strictly necessary. Even now, his gaze kept drawing up to look at Ed’s shoulders and watch them rise and fall with soft laughter. There was nothing to be done about the situation: Ed needed to stay here. Riza had been right, Ed needed him because he could trust him. Roy had to be worthy of that trust. </p><p>Slowly, it became obvious that the Elric brother conversation was becoming one-sided. The sudden drop of Ed’s shoulders was the first warning, followed by a series of soft agreeable noises. Roy needs to stop staring, one of these days he would get caught and Ed would know-- Ed turns to look at him now and the startled look in his eyes is there, but it doesn’t seem to bely some deeper <em>knowledge</em> that could ruin them both. Whatever makes his eyes widen briefly is closely guarded. He raises his softer hand and waves Roy over. </p><p>“Yeah, okay, he’s here Al. Don’t--” Ed’s face colours and he turns away sharply, “Don’t say <em>that</em>. You little twerp.” He shoves the phone at Roy, “Here, talk to this gremlin, I think he’s eaten my brother.” He stalks off as effectively as he can on his crutches and starts venting his frustration into the consumption of spring rolls. </p><p>“You wanted to speak to me, Alphonse?” Roy says into the receiver, feeling some trepidation as Ed ate faster than was probably totally safe for his esophagus. </p><p>“Yes! I have some concerns about Brother that I was hoping you could assuage.” </p><p>“Of course, anything you think he might need I’m happy to provide--” </p><p>“He needs a hug. Several hugs, actually. He’s like a puppy, or a kitten, really, any small fuzzy little blessing, if you don’t give him enough affection he starts to get all cold and sad and it’s very depressing. He probably hasn’t said anything because, you <em>know</em> how he is. But, he needs it. Very badly.” </p><p>“Oh,” came Roy’s succinct reply. </p><p>“I hope you’re up to the task, General, he can be a little prickly and he’ll probably kick you in the shins a couple times if he can manage it, but he really needs it,” Alphonse paused, and Roy can feel his exacting gaze coming through the receiver and boring into his soul, “Do you think you can handle that, General?” </p><p>Roy clears his throat, “If you don’t hear from me again, know I died valiantly trying to execute your wishes. I doubt he’ll leave enough of me to bury.” </p><p>Alphonse’s laughter is a gentle burbling stream of sound where his brother’s is a rushing tide, cacophonous and inevitable, “I’ll honour you, General Mustang sir, I’ll commit your heroics to song and spread them between Central and the Eastern Sea. Which is lovely by the way, if you ever get a chance.” </p><p>“Thank you, Alphonse. I should get off the line before your brother eats my dinner.” </p><p>“Oh, it’s too late for that, have you seen him eat? But, yes, I’ll release you. Have a pleasant evening, sir!” </p><p>“Thank you, Alphonse, you as well. Say ‘hello’ to Miss Rockbell for me.” </p><p>“Will do! Talk soon!” </p><p>The line clicks as call disconnects and he nestles the phone back in the cradle. </p><p>The sounds of Ed’s scarfing are still coming from the kitchen behind him and Roy probably has thirty seconds before Ed realizes he is no longer on the phone and is just staring blankly at the wall instead of coming back to defend what’s left of his meal. Alphonse was right, Ed did need a hug -- he needed the selfless physical reassurance and comfort that could be found in the arms of someone who cared deeply about him without a personal stake. Someone like his brother. Not someone like Roy who wanted to offer infinitely more than what could be found in a compionable embrace. But that didn’t solve the problem, didn’t fill Ed’s needs. And if Roy <em>didn’t</em> hug him Alphonse would sense it immediately and blow Roy’s head clean off his shoulders with the force of his fraternal rage. </p><p>He went back into the kitchen where Ed’s cheeks were bulging with an inordinate volume of dumpling. </p><p>“Wa Al wan?” He was disgusting and Roy loved him immeasurably. </p><p>“Oh, you know,” Roy says mildly, watching as Ed lifts his glass of water to his lips and washes down his half-chewed pilfered dumplings -- the opportunity was too good to pass by, “He thinks you need a hug.” </p><p>Ed manages to prevent himself from spewing pulverized dumpling all over Roy’s face, but it’s a close thing. He slams his hand over his mouth and chokes the slurry down and Roy knows precisely how the proverbial cat with cream feels. When Ed’s windpipe appears to be mostly clear, Roy continues: </p><p>“So are you?” </p><p>“What?” Ed gasps, whacking himself roughly on the sternum with his metal fist. </p><p>“In need of a hug.” </p><p>He deserves the scowl Ed levels him with. He can’t begrudge him the springroll he takes directly off Roy’s plate. </p><p>“I’m not a child. I don’t need snuggles.” The sullenness with which he says it does very little to bolster his point, but Roy isn’t about to call him on it. </p><p>“Studies have shown hugging regularly lowers blood pressure.” </p><p>“Do I look stressed to you?” Roy stares directly at the place where Ed’s eyelid twitches on the downbeat of his heart’s rhythm and then holds a long moment of leveled eye contact with Ed himself. His body language indicates that he’ll concede the point, even if he won’t admit it outloud.  </p><p>“If I don’t hug you, I’m afraid your brother might murder me in my sleep. Do you really want my blood on your hands? Think of my mother. She might weep into her scotch. The salt will unbalance the body. How tragic.”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s a real sob story right there, ‘Perfect Angel Alchemical Genius Returns from Xing to Revolutionize Modern Medicine; Can Do No Wrong’ followed by an unrelated footnote about a missing do-nothing General. I’ll be sure to frame it.” </p><p>“I value my life just enough to keep your brother from cutting it into unidentifiable pieces and scattering it among the waterways.”</p><p>Ed grunts moodily and pushes a clump of fried rice around his plate. The protective hunch of his shoulders couldn’t have broadcast unapproachability any louder. Perhaps he can sense that physical assurance from Roy would feature a less altruistic intention than an embrace from his brother. Ed was more thoughtful, more aware than anyone who believed his brash exterior gave him credit for. He’s probably noticed the stolen glances, the bated breath that accompanied alone time with Roy. He probably didn’t want to risk their friendship, or his ticket out of the hospital, by confronting Roy about it. Guilt sinks in Roy’s stomach like a stone and he pushes away his plate.  </p><p>“That being said,” Roy says, forcing his face into a genteel smile, “if you don’t tattle on me, I should survive.” Ed looks up at Roy with a surprised, open face as he stands. </p><p>“You aren’t gonna finish?” </p><p>Roy can’t help the tightening around the edges of his mouth, “All the dismemberment talk has ruined my appetite.” He retreats to the dining room, which is really more of an office with extra chairs to stack files and books on. He rolls up the sleeves of his loose knit sweater, dons his home-bound spectacles, and spends the rest of the evening shuffling papers back and forth, making notes. It’s easier to blot out the self loathing and disappointment with the mindless drone of bureaucracy. The evening wears on and before he knows it, his eyelids are heavy and he has to read a line several times over before he actually absorbs the information. </p><p>“Hey.” </p><p>Roy looks up and Ed is standing at the entryway. He’s perfected the art of awkwardly shuffling his soft foot against the floor while suspending himself between his crutches. </p><p>“Yes?” Roy drops his chin to look at Ed over the rim of his glasses. </p><p>“I’m gonna turn in,” Ed says, without meeting Roy’s gaze directly. He’s let his hair down, which he usually does immediately before bed, and it pools over one shoulder as he tilts his head, “You probably should too, it’s getting late.” </p><p>“I’m almost finished, I’ll head up in a bit.” Roy adjusts his glasses and flips to the next page in the document he’s been pouring over. Ed doesn’t immediately say anything or leave so Roy looks up again. “Don’t let me keep you up.” </p><p>“No, uh, it’s not that.” Ed is scowling into the middle distance and even with the length of the dining table between them Roy can see colour saturating in Ed’s face. </p><p>Roy waits, patiently, expectantly, for Ed to overcome whatever stubborn discomfort that prevents him speaking his problem aloud. </p><p>“I don’t want Al to disappear you. Or, rather, I don’t want blood on Al’s hands. They’re nice hands. We worked real hard to get 'em back and I don’t want you bleeding all over 'em. That's gross.” </p><p>Roy continues to wait, hoping for some illumination. Ed directs his formerly inward frustration outward, at Roy, with a horrendous scowl. He really shouldn’t abuse his lovely face like that. </p><p>“So, hug me, you stupid bastard. God, no wonder Hawkeye has to rub your nose in your work all the time, you’d never get anything done on your own.” Ed's face is absolutely scarlet but Roy doesn’t really have the presence of mind to appreciate it, he’s so surprised. </p><p>“Oh,” he says softly, “If you’d like me to.”</p><p>“It’s not about ‘like’, idiot, I’m trying to keep my baby brother from his homicidal tendencies. I’m obligated.” </p><p>Roy laughs, helplessly, and takes his glasses off.</p><p> “Alright,” he says, “If it’s to aid in your fraternal duty, I guess I don’t have much choice in the matter.” He stands, the chair skittering across the hardwood floor. He rounds the table and approaches Ed. Who stares up at him, red faced and sporting a slightly stunned expression. </p><p>“Well?” Roy prompts and Ed starts minutely. He steadies himself on his flesh foot and Roy holds his hands out for fear that he might topple and tumble. Apparently more confident in his remaining leg’s standing power than Roy is, Ed puts his crutches aside and leans them against the nearest wall. Then he takes an awkward, shuffling half step forward and Roy moves quickly to close the gap between them before Ed can try to move any further on one leg. His arms go around Ed’s waist with the intention of catching him, but the way Ed’s arms go up over Roy’s shoulders and around his neck, changes the trajectory of the embrace and then they’re wrapped tightly around one another. </p><p>Ed’s just tall enough now to push his face directly into Roy’s throat, the heat of his face radiates into Roy’s skin so brightly that it’s contagious and Roy can feel pink climbing his neck toward his ears. Ed is stiff, rigid between Roy’s arms for several heart beats but then he settles and just melts. They lean against one another chest to chest and he sighs into Roy’s skin, a close, humid puff of air followed by a receding breeze as he inhales. His arms tighten around Roy’s neck and it feels natural to dip forward, his mouth treacherously close to Ed’s ear, and haul him in as close as possible. His hands spread flat and wide across Ed’s waist and back. He’s gone a little soft after months of limited activity; he puts in as much physio as his therapist can in good conscience approve of, but the absence of mixed martial arts and gymnastics from his daily routines has smoothed the usually defined ridges of muscle. There’s a kind of unexpected fragility in that -- Ed has become vulnerable here, in Roy’s house, so gradually that Roy hasn’t been acutely aware of it. </p><p>They stay like that, locked together, for a few precious moments. Roy can smell Ed’s hair, perfumed with clean sweat and machine oil. It would be so easy to tilt his head and press his face into the crown of Ed’s hair, to draw his hands up his back and run his fingers through the lengths of spooled gold. Would Ed tense in his arms if he kissed his ear? Or would he shudder and lean into it? The weight of his two arms slung over Roy’s shoulders is unbalanced but not uncomfortable. The automail was heavy, despite its relative sleekness compared to the Rockbell model. Heat radiates from his softer arm and Roy wants to wake up tangled together, warmed by it. </p><p>Eventually, Ed’s hold slackens and despite the urge Roy feels to jerk him forward and hold on just a moment longer, he lets go. </p><p>“You’re welcome,” Ed says, his voice rough enough that he needs to clear his throat before he speaks again, “You know, for saving your life.” </p><p>“My hero,” Roy says, entirely too wistful. Ed has always been the hero, hasn’t he? Even when he’s broken, when he’s tired, he moves them forward. He makes the world turn. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment too long to be permissible. Ed breaks away first, dropping his chin and hiding his eyes behind the shadow of his bangs.</p><p>“Alright, well, goodnight.” This isn’t the goodnight Roy wants, selfishly, achingly. This isn’t how he wants it to end. </p><p>“Goodnight, Edward.” This love is like fire and just like fire, Roy needs to control it. Shunt the oxygen out, stifle the flame before he burns himself or, godforbid, Ed. </p><p>He watches Ed shrug on to his crutches, ready to steady him at a moment's notice. He can handle himself though, which is more than Roy can say about himself at the moment. He shuffles toward the stairs, pausing the look back and spare Roy a little wave with his new silver hand. Roy returns it. Then returns to his paperwork. When he hears Ed’s door close he pours himself three fingers worth of scotch and gives up on the pretense of staring at paperwork to stare at the wall. </p><p>
  <em>Goddamn it. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content warning: sexual situations (oral and digital sex), poor sexual/intimate communication, alcohol consumption and drunkenness, some less than stunning gender politics from our good friend havoc, negative self talk associated with having a disability, pain </p><p>finally, the boys get somewhere! now if only they would... talk about their feelings... I decided to bump up the rating! if explicit content isn't your thing, you should be okay to just skip it and read the aftermath. can you catch the elliott smith reference in this?? you win a prize! the prize is that you were probably just as depressed as i was in high school. </p><p>please imagine riza staring into the camera for this entire chapter, because she is. she's so tired. at least alphonse gets the meddle from a distance and not having subject himself to their horrendous pining. </p><p>thanks for the comments and kudos! I'm pretty anxious to see how this chapter is received so please tell me your thoughts!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Riza calls before nine on Saturday and Roy listens to her speak for a full forty-five seconds before his brain actually tunes into wakefulness. </p><p>“So, can you be at the park by twelve thirty?” She asks, like he’s been listening. </p><p>“I can be. Most likely. It’s highly probable. Which park?” He rolls over onto his side so he can lean the receiver against the side of his head instead of holding it. He tucks his arm under his pillow and draws it in closer to his face. Before <em>nine</em>, she really is a tyrant. A beautiful, valkyrian tyrant for whom he would gladly give his life. </p><p>She huffs audibly, clearly she’s already specified which park and possibly named several landmarks in the vicinity so he could hold the image of it in his mind. She’s a tyrant and he’s insufferable, what a pair they make. </p><p>“The one on West Twelfth. With the—“ </p><p>“With the carousel, and those terrible horses. Public Works really should get them re-painted. Can’t we petition them?” </p><p>“I’ll add it to your list of noble causes, sir. Can you make it?”</p><p>“Yes, yes, we’ll be there. Bring enough dog treats to share with Ed, he gets peckish after exercise.” </p><p>Ed only agrees to come to the park when Roy reveals that Elicia and Melanie would also be attending the rendezvous, with canines in tow. On the way to the car, Ed hikes his shoulders up against the chill, so Roy darts back up the stoop to snag a scarf for him. Ed shouts expletives at him the entire time, until he sees that Roy’s chosen the bulky barn-coloured wrap Al had gifted Roy for his birthday last year. He holds still long enough for Roy to carefully coil it around his neck and tuck the ends into his jacket. He practically nestles down into it. </p><p>Riza and the girls are already in the park when they arrive. The carousel is shut down for the winter but the garish horses still glare hauntingly in Roy’s direction as they enter the central plaza. Ed snickers as Roy complains that repugnant public art was the harbinger of death to civilized society. </p><p>“Could you say they’re the four horses of the apocalypse?” Ed asks, eyeing a particularly twisted equine horror. </p><p>“No, there are over two dozen of them. Our destruction is assured.” </p><p>“Well, it’s mutual at least.” </p><p>The girls spot them and come quickly toward them, Roy and Ed making an effort to meet them part way. </p><p>“Good afternoon, Mister Ed and Mister General Mustang, sir,” Melanie greets them, cheerier than Roy expected. Her cheeks are pink with the mid-winter chill but she’s tightly bundled in a plush purple coat. She’s sporting an intricately crochet eyepatch in canary yellow with a pink flower detail. It’s certainly the most adorable eyepatch Roy’s ever seen. </p><p>“Good afternoon, Miss Melanie,” he answers, “please, all my dearest friends call me Roy.” He relishes in the ring of her musical little giggle, and judging by the unbridled joy blooming across Ed’s face so does he. In the interceding months since the accident, Melanie has blossomed. She still walks with a cane, which she leans on as their little group congregates, but she has a healthy glow about her and an easy smile. He wants very badly to hold Ed’s shoulder and say, <em>you did this, you made this happen</em>. </p><p>“Makes sense then that I’ve never once heard any of your friends call you anything but your full title,” Ed chirps, holding out his softer arm and leaning carefully on his crutch so that he can angle his body down to hug Melanie and then Elicia. </p><p>“I thought your name was ‘sir’, sir,” Riza says without a hint on irony. Roy hates it when they team up on him. </p><p>The dogs come trotting out behind Riza, Beau first followed by Hayate. Roy didn’t think dogs could look exasperated, but the look on Hayate’s black and white mug is exactly that. Beau is nearly twice his size and still a puppy. His feet are huge and his long pink tongue is lolling out of his panting mouth. Riza and Hayate both side eye him as he nudges needily at the girls, though it is worth noting he’s gentler with Melanie. He is a handsome dog with his plush tan coat marked with a black mask and saddle. His pointed ears swivel in Ed and Roy’s direction when they speak and he nudges his snout against Roy’s hand to demand a pat. </p><p>Roy can’t help putting his hand on Ed’s back when he bends a little more recklessly than he should to give the dog a hardy skritch around the neck, murmuring ‘who’s a good boy, it’s you’ all the while. He sheepishly avoids Riza’s stare as he does it. </p><p>Their little menagerie wanders the circular path of the park, the dogs and the girls leading the pack with Roy, Riza and Ed trailing behind. Riza takes up Ed’s opposite side and asks how Ed is adjusting to the new automail, and how Alphonse had been when he called last. Ed gives vague non-answers about the automail and spares no detail regaling Riza with Al’s exploits. She listens attentively with a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Roy listens in companionable silence, watching as Elicia takes Melanie’s hand and adjusts her pace to meet the slower girl’s. Maes would be so proud of her, so he honours his memory by letting his own chest swell with affection and delight. </p><p>They reach a stretch of lawn that meets Riza’s ephemeral conditions for dog mentorship. Ed and Roy find a bench nearby so they can spectate while Riza runs through a circuit of commands that Hayate eagerly performs, each successful stunt performed is punctuated with a sharp click from the little torqued metal device in Riza’s palm and rewarded with few small treats. </p><p>“She should get one of those for you,” Ed says, kicking his leg out so he can stretch out from the bench in a way that can’t be good for his back. </p><p>“She’s tried it, I’m just not food motivated enough. It would probably work for you though.” Beau keeps sniffing at Riza’s pocket where the treats manifest from and she taps him firmly on the end of the nose to discourage him. </p><p>“Dog food tastes like shit,” Ed says and when Roy looks at him, he doesn’t elaborate, “You should get a dog.” </p><p>“Should I?” </p><p>“Yeah, you could talk at it for hours and it wouldn’t understand any of the smarmy bullshit you say so it would love you anyways.” </p><p>“But it wouldn’t be able to laugh at my incredible smarmy jokes. Where’s the companionship in that?” </p><p>“Maybe you should get a parrot then, at least it would talk back at you.” </p><p>“I thought that was your job.” </p><p>“Not anymore.” </p><p>As if on cue, a low register voice from behind them comes, “Professor Elric?” </p><p>Ed turns, sitting up, and his face lights up with recognition, “Viktor! How the hell are you?” </p><p>Viktor, apparently, approaches them with a big smile across his handsome face. His big green eyes give Roy a cursory once over as he rounds the bench on Ed’s side. The shock of red hair and constellation of dusty freckles complete an exceptional organization of features. He’s probably Ed’s age, if not a year or two younger. </p><p>“I’m fine, you know, finals are over so... we missed you during the end of the semester.” The sheepish quirk of his mouth belies how personally Ed’s absence was felt. “How have you been? No one in the department told us anything.” </p><p>“Oh you know, I just really wanted to take a sabbatical and there’s all that stupid paperwork, this seemed easier,” Ed gestures with his crutches. </p><p>“Really it was a matter of convenience,” Roy chimes in, because he hasn’t been directly acknowledged yet and he feels compelled to assert himself. Viktor gives him another curious look, the corners of his eyes narrowing just enough for Roy to know he’s being appraised. </p><p>“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Viktor says, with a friendly enough smile. Exactly enough, for the sake of plausible deniability. </p><p>“Roy Mustang,” he says, offering Viktor his hand to shake and his most winsome smile. His palm is wide, strong and unscarred. It’s a good handshake, which is annoying. </p><p>“We used to work together,” Ed says, which is a generous description of his employment as a child soldier. </p><p>Viktor says, “Oh, that’s interesting,” which it isn’t, but it’s polite of him to say, “I’m Viktor Wallis, I’m a grad student in Professor Elric’s department--” </p><p>“How many times do I have to tell you to call me ‘Ed’, I’m not even your advisor.” </p><p>“Of course, Ed,” Viktor says with entirely too much fondness. At least he and Roy have that in common, “Do you know if you’ll be back next semester?” </p><p>They chat, catch up about their colleagues and when Roy can’t take watching Viktor make goo-goo eyes at Ed anymore he refocuses on Riza and the girls. Elicia has the clicker now and is trying to coax Beau into sitting on command. He keeps trying to snuffle his way into her little palm where treats are hiding. </p><p>“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mister Mustang.” <em>The absolute wretch</em>, Roy’s mind hisses and he fights an acute awareness of the tints of grey growing from his scalp. When Melanie says ‘mister’ it’s cute and respectful, when this red headed twerp does it -- it’s a dig. Ed doesn’t seem to notice. </p><p>“Let me know how your research turns out,” Ed is saying, totally unaware that Roy’s dignity has been shredded. “The reconfiguration of the Jupiter sigil sounds interesting, you should look into pewter alloys--” </p><p>“Here,” Viktor produces a little notepad from his pocket and a pen, which he uses to scribble his phone number on, “We can get coffee sometime, and talk about it.” Roy psychically broadcasts his distress to Riza and wills her to unholster her ever present sidearm and put him out of his misery. She doesn’t and it’s devastating. </p><p>“Oh awesome, yeah. I’ll call you,” Ed says, receiving the cursed paper. </p><p>“Great-- it’s a date, Ed.” Oh come on! It’s all Roy can do to keep from fling his hands in the air in exasperation. </p><p>Ed laughs, like it’s a joke, waves Viktor off. </p><p>Roy waits until the eager handsome brilliant young graduate student is out of earshot to say: “Well, he’s keen.” </p><p>“He’s developing sigils for prefab metal work. It’s pretty neat stuff.” </p><p>“That’s not what I meant.” </p><p>“Hm?” </p><p>“‘It’s a <em>date</em>’,” Roy intonates, “You should look up the university’s fraternization rules.” </p><p>“...What? You’re insane.”</p><p>“And are you blind? It could be indicative of brain damage, we should tell your doctor.” </p><p>“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. He’s just a friendly guy.” Ed’s face is getting pinker under the winter rosiness. </p><p>“And I’m sure he’ll get friendlier. On your <em>date</em>,” Roy’s voice is edging out of ‘playful teasing’ and bordering perilously close to ‘bitter old coot’. </p><p>Ed glowers at him, presumably trying to come up with a catty retort, but Roy lets his pettiness overtake him. He gets up and goes to check on the girls. Riza looks over at him and Elicia and Melanie celebrate Beau’s first successful ‘sit’ with a round of applause. </p><p>“What did you do?” Riza says, sweeping her gaze over in Ed’s direction. </p><p>“Nothing. I wanted to see if Hayate’s mentee was absorbing the syllabus or if we’ll need to take him to remedial puppy school.” </p><p>“Edward is sulking. You did something.” </p><p>“Your faith in me is staggering. Have I ever told you you’re my best friend in the world?” </p><p>“On several occasions, chiefly when you’re trying to distract me from how badly you’ve shit the bed.” She’s speaking very quietly so the children won’t overhear her cursing. “What did you do?”</p><p>Roy works his spit around his mouth and tries to find a way to say <em>I had to watch Ed get hit on by a charming redhead who seemed about ready to fall into his half legless lap and I’m upset about it, don’t criticize me</em> without sounding like an absolute drama queen. </p><p>“Roy,” she prompts, which is how he knows he’s really stepped in it. </p><p>“It’s nothing.” He tightly reins in his bad mood, extinguishes the flames and scatters the ashes. It doesn’t bother him anymore. The temper tantrum has been averted.  Ed can and <em>should</em> go out. See his friends. Have a life out from under Roy’s influence. It’s what he deserves. It’s what Roy wants. It’s what Roy is supposed to want. </p><p>Riza stares at him, watching minute fissures in his expression that he wishes he could seal over. She’s too good at reading him by a half, but she’s never offended by how desperately he tries to bury the truth. He’s never deserved her.  </p><p>She exhales, reaches into her pocket and withdraws a little pouch, presumably of dog treats. </p><p>“Typically, you only get to act jilted <em>after</em> you’ve become lovers, sir,” she says and doesn’t wait for him to finish stammering before she turns and goes back the way he came, toward Ed, leaving Roy literally holding the bag. </p><p>Roy doesn’t look back, focusing his gaze on the middle distance in the girls’ direction. He has no right to be so annoyed by this. He has no stake, no claim in Ed’s life. He has to let this go. He has let Ed go. </p><p>“We’re going for a walk,” Riza says a few minutes later and when Roy glances over, he sees that she has Ed in tow, “Hayate, come.” </p><p>The three of them go to the pathway encircling the field and Roy does his darndest not to watch them as they make their circuit. </p><p>“Uncle Roy!” Elicia calls, waving the clicker in the air, “Watch what Beau can do!” </p><p>Perhaps Elicia has inherited her father’s sixth sense for Roy’s mood and his meddling spirit. She waves him over and he’s drawn to her instantly. He lets his mood be buoyed by the familiar curve and crinkle of her smile and comes over to watch her coax Beau into sitting on command. He misses Maes so damn much, but seeing facets of him shining through her soothes the bone deep ache.  </p><p>He’s teaching her and Melanie how to balance a treat on the end of the dog’s snout, with mixed success, when he sees two blonde heads approaching. He looks up toward them and in an instant, he and Ed’s eyes meet. Roy’s chest swells and he hates himself for it. Both he and Ed break their gaze to look at Riza, who appears to be speaking to Ed with her hand gently on his shoulders. The look she gives him is soft, bordering on serene and Roy’s chest floods with affection for her. She used to look at him like that, before the war, before he made monsters of them both. </p><p>She’d stopped being able to show him uncomplicated faith once she’d reached a certain level of saturation; she knew too much of how broken he was to be able to share her unrestrained joy with him. He never resented her for it, he’d never deserved it in the first place. Instead she faced him head on, unrelenting and exacting. It served them both well and made their shared crosses bearable. </p><p>He tucks the now very light treat baggie into his pocket, hopes she forgets about it and knows she won’t. </p><p>“Pleasant walk?” He asks as they come within earshot. </p><p>-- </p><p>On their walk around the park, Lieutenant Hawkeye asks if Ed might be up to meeting with Roy’s team for drinks that night. She understands if he’s tired, but they’ve been asking after him and Roy hasn’t been putting in an appearance since the accident. He’s happy to, really, though he can’t drink because of his pain medication, but she assures him she won’t be drinking either so she can ferry Havoc and Breda home once they start leaning on one another too heavily. </p><p>“It’s difficult to be out in public,” she says with no judgment in the observation, “Especially when no one can appreciate the pain you’re in.” She’s speaking from personal experience, he can see it in the softness in her expression, and he wonders what happened -- what crippling hurt she was made to carry under unkind eyes. She smiles at him, unguarded, and Ed can’t bring himself to lie to her. </p><p>“Yeah, it is.” Being in public, being exposed to strangers pins Ed between two warring feelings: first, anger that other people might dare to judge him for existing crippled in public, with their curious stares and their suffocating pity, and second resentment that they don’t know what it’s like to suffer the pain and humiliation of being so broken “But it’s been worse.” And that was true too. His spirit isn’t broken, and Al is okay. When he was a kid and neither of those things were true, he had survived on bitterness and spite alone. This time around it’s different. He can do this, and come out the other side more or less the same. </p><p>They walk back to where Roy is messing around with Beau and the girls. Ed can hear their giggles even at this distance. Melanie is so sweet and happy that he can’t regret a single second of his pain if this is what it’s been in exchange for. Her smile is so bright and lovely, it’s worth a thousand broken limbs. Beau is jumping at Roy and getting his great big filthy paws on the front of Roy’s nice jacket, but he doesn’t even look mad at it. Roy looks up and their eyes meet and Ed feels the current of it through his nervous system. That was worth something too, but Ed couldn’t say what. </p><p>“It’s been good that you’ve been with him,” Hawkeye says, putting her hand on Ed’s softer shoulder, “I’m sure he hasn’t said so, but he’s been really happy.” Ed blinks at her. </p><p>Roy didn’t necessarily seem put out to have Ed around, but Ed just assumed he saved his griping for the office -- that he saved up his regret and resentment and told everyone at work that Ed’s long hair got tangled in the drains and he drank more than his share of the first pot of coffee in the morning so that he could come home and tolerate being saddled with Ed. Roy didn’t ask for this and Ed had pinned it on him without ever even asking. When he and Al moved back to the city, Al had insisted they name alternate medical proxies, just in case. Al had picked Gracia, after they’d talked about it one afternoon over an exquisite apple tart. Ed had just scribbled Roy’s name down on the little form because it had felt right and it probably wouldn’t ever matter. Who, other than Al, did Ed trust with deciding if he lived or died? Who else would know when to cut the losses and make peace with it? His gut knew and he could live with that. </p><p>And that one, stupid, impulsive decision landed him squarely in Roy’s lap, in Roy’s life, on Roy’s conscience, for the foreseeable future. What did Riza think he was so happy about? </p><p>She’s smiling at him, so gentle, and he misses his mom so fucking bad for a heartbeat. Then he pins it down, sweeps it up, and puts it back into a locked chest of long-hurts where it belongs. That’s where he carries it. </p><p>“All right. He’s getting on in years, best to keep him social while we can, you know.” </p><p>Hawkeye shares a mischievous smile with him “That would be lovely,” she says, and she means it. </p><p>They rejoin their little group and Elicia attempts to recreate whatever half-assed trick Roy was supposedly teaching Beau, without much success. She fumbles balancing the treat on the end of his snoot and when it drops in the grass the poor mut can’t resist snapping it up. Hawkeye holds her breath for six seconds and then exhales very slowly. Roy looks as innocent as possible as Beau continues to sniff around in the grass for treats. </p><p>On the walk back to the cars, Elicia slips her hand into Roy’s and then waves Melanie over to take his other. Roy gets this funny, sweet smile on his face as Melanie shyly offers him her hand and Ed’s heart threatens to give up the ghost right there and then. This sweet-gentle smile Roy gets when he talks to kids is killer. He’s only ever seen it when he talked to Elicia but now he extends it to Melanie -- a sad, broken kid like Ed had been and she just beams back at him. </p><p>They pile the girls and the dogs into Hawkeye’s car and Roy and Ed wave them off from the curb before making their way back to Roy’s. </p><p>Roy makes a bit of a fuss about going out to the pub later -- complaining about the paperwork he’d brought home with him that he needs to get to, about how the food there isn’t ever very good, and how if he has to listen to Jean pine after every nice pair of legs that comes into the place he’ll lose his fucking gourd. But he comes around and they head back out in the evening. </p><p>The first round has already come and is half-way over by the time they shuffle into the pub. It’s crowded, but it’s not a military bar so Roy can cut back on the posturing. The sheer number of human bodies loitering around the bar room makes it challenging to navigate on his crutches and he moves halting to the bench flanked table Team Mustang is crowded around. Roy’s hand is heavy and warm across the middle of Ed’s back as he shields him from the human crush around them and Ed actively tries not to look at him. </p><p>Lieutenant Hawkeye has commandeered a chair with a back for Ed so that he doesn’t have to struggle getting his braced leg up and over a bench to sit at a table; the woman thinks of everything and no one deserves a second of her time. Certainly not this bunch of assholes. </p><p>“Hey, Boss!” Havoc says, “Good to see you! I never believed the rumours.” </p><p>“What rumours?” Ed pretends he doesn’t notice that Roy is pulling his chair out for him, because if he <em>did</em> he’d have to break his fucking fingers. </p><p>“That you’re dead,” says Falman, sort of cheerily. </p><p>“Oh, is that all,” Ed says, plunking gracelessly into his seat. Roy takes up the nearest seat to him on the bench, sitting across from Hawkeye. She pushes a pint glass at Roy and he accepts it without comment. Towards Ed, she pushes a tall glass filled with pinkish liquid. There’s a spring of mint sticking out the top of the glass, which he plucks out and begins to fidget with. </p><p>“You didn’t have to do that,” Ed says, embarrassed because she’s probably already paid for it. </p><p>“I know,” she says, “I wanted to.” </p><p>After that the table falls into a pretty typical round of conversation: Fuery is filing a patent for his long distance radio amplifier, Falman shares an anecdote about radio cartography that is interesting only to him and maybe Fuery, Breda’s mother is talking about moving back East for the seventh year in a row and Havoc is still woefully single. </p><p>“What about you boss?” Havoc quirks an eyebrow in Ed’s direction. </p><p>“What <em>about</em> me?” Ed deadpans </p><p>“You make a lady out of any of the nurses when you were jammed up? Maybe get a hero’s sponge bath?” He winks, the absolute tart.  </p><p>“You’re disgusting,” Ed says without heat, chewing on a mint leaf as he chases the last of his ice around his glass with a straw. </p><p>“That’s not a ‘no’,” Breda elbows Havoc and Ed rolls his eyes so hard they might actually fall out of his damn head. Hawkeye scowls disapprovingly into her glass and Roy is looking out at the busy barroom. </p><p>“I’m not a prick like you Havoc, I don’t chase tail when it’s on the clock.” He tosses his coaster like it’s throwing star and catches Havoc squarely in the cheek and he relishes in the flinch he earns “Besides, anyone that’s sponged my crippled ass knows exactly how busted it is.” He hates talking about this shit. He busies himself with plucking the last of the mint leaves off the little sprig and trying to fold the stem into a knot. It’s not easy with the new automail, which has less fine motor fineness. </p><p>“Aw come on, boss, Promised Day wasn’t so long ago that dropping the Fullmetal Alchemist name doesn’t drop panties at your feet.” </p><p>“Being out of uniform isn’t an excuse to be crude, Second Lieutenant Havoc,” Hawkeye says, narrowing her eyes at him. </p><p>Havoc raises his hand defensively, “I’m just trying to say, the boss can get it.” </p><p>Ed’s face has been steadily flooding with colour this whole time, now it feels like his face is on fire, “Yeah, well, I fucking can’t Havoc, no one is lining up to fuck a one armed, one legged freak, so would you just drop it?” He’s crushed the little mint stem in his steel palm, he can smell it’s siren song perfuming the air. </p><p>There’s an awkwardly long beat of silence around the table, smothered by the busy bar noise around them. </p><p>“Sorry, Boss, I didn’t mean nothing by--” Havoc has the good sense to look humbled and sorry, but Ed drops his gaze to the scuffed table top. This is why he hates talking about shit like this. It’s awkward as hell and people always make these bat-shit assumptions. </p><p>“Whatever,” Ed says, he knows he should come up with something to talk about instead, something to get all of them out of this awkward moment, but his brain fritzing with embarrassment and he can’t seem to summon thoughts other than the spiral of <em>no one will ever fuck me, let alone love me, never like this, I’ll die alone</em>-- </p><p>“Let’s get another round in, shall we? Havoc, it’s on you,” Roy says, leaning back on the bench to wave a server down. She comes immediately (because of course she does, Roy’s laying the charm thick with that damned debonair grin and the way he leans in to see what’s she’s scribbling on her notepad, making some joke and <em>laughing</em> with her) and Roy orders Hawkeye and Ed a couple more mocktails and a round of top shelf tequila for the drinking half of the table.</p><p>“Aw come on, Chief,” Havoc whines as Roy perfectly pronounces all the little accents on whatever high priced drain cleaner he’s ordered. </p><p>“Make sure to put it on the gentleman’s tab, won’t you? He owes me.” That smile could charm blood from a stone, so the server just nods and smiles shyly back at him. </p><p>Ed doesn’t have it in him to be annoyed though, because Roy did it for him, didn’t he? He’s exchanging Ed’s embarrassment for Havoc’s, which he’d obviously prefer not to be humiliated in front of his former coworkers in a crowded place, but if there has to be an exchange that’s one he can live with. </p><p>The table chatter resumes and the inane banter and story swapping is equal parts comforting and draining. Over the last few months Ed’s social stamina has been significantly reduced and he doesn’t have a ton of anecdotes to share outside of his crippling daily pain and the funny shit his physio says. Eventually the rate at which he chimes in to the conversation slows and he busies himself with fidgeting with his straw. </p><p>“Alphonse seemed well when he called last,” Roy says, speaking low and leaning closer to Ed. Ed tilts his head toward him to better hear him over the din of the barroom. It’s nice, to not have to strain to hear or shout to be heard. </p><p>“He’s having a great time. Every town seems to have a roving cat colony he wants to shepherd back across the border.”</p><p>“If anyone could successfully herd cats, I’m sure it would be Alphonse.” Roy smiles with a twist schadenfreude as Ed moans. </p><p>“Don’t say that, he’ll hear you and take it as a personal challenge. I’m sure he could train them to carry him back across the desert if he put his mind to it.” Roy’s laugh is bright, genuine and it brings an easy smile on to Ed’s face. </p><p>Talking to Roy is easier than Ed ever remembers it being. Maybe it has something to do with how well Roy knows Ed’s condition. There’s no judgment, no explanations or qualifications required. Roy knows already, so Ed doesn’t have to lay himself bare. Talking with Roy feels normal and safe the same way talking to Al does. </p><p>The next round comes and goes, and then another. Breda and Havoc are talking about another when Hawkeye stands sharply and says they’ve had exactly enough and then she enlists Ed in the task of shepherding four tipsy servicemen into her car. Roy insists he and Ed can cab back to his place on their own and then he and Hawkeye do their silent eye contact communication thing while Ed just stands there looking back and forth between them wondering what the fuck is going on. </p><p>“Fine,” she says, finally, all clipped, “I didn’t have room for you anyways. Goodnight, Edward.” Her voice melts into a kinder tone when she speaks to him, which is nice, except Ed’s still feeling a little sheepish after haranguing Havoc so he just nods at her. </p><p>Roy hails them a cab and ushers Ed inside. The ride home is oddly quiet, with Roy staring out the window watching the city scroll by. They get back to Roy’s and it isn’t until they’re shelping off their coats that Roy finally speaks up. </p><p>“Did you really mean it?” He’s paused uncoiling his scarf so his hands are just sort of hanging in mid air holding it. </p><p>Ed leans heavily on one crutch while he gets his coat on a hanger, “Mean what?” </p><p>“What you said earlier.” </p><p>“Gonna need you to be more specific, Mustang, I said a lot of shit tonight. If it’s that thing about Al and the mittens, then yes he absolutely got stuck in them, it was adorable, and I’ll deny any other version of events--” </p><p>“Not that.” Roy is still standing there, his scarf half unwrapped from his neck and his coat drooping where he’s hung it haphazardly. </p><p>“I’m not playing twenty questions with you, Mustang, it’s late. What the fuck are you talking about?” </p><p>“That you think no one is attracted to you because of your amputation.” </p><p>Ed feels icy cold all over. Colder than he did when they were outside. He feels the iciness most intensely in his wretched stump. </p><p>“There’s no ‘thinking’, it’s an objective observable fact.” Ed hangs up his coat and begins to shuffle down the hall on his crutches, eager to get as far away from this conversation as possible.</p><p>There’s shuffling behind him as Roy struggles out of his boots and follows him down the hall, “How can you be objective about an observed phenomenon concerning yourself? It’s not possible.” </p><p>“Shut up.” </p><p>“And earlier, today, that red headed minx--I mean, grad student, he asked you on a date--” </p><p>“That’s not a fucking date, Mustang, get it through your thick skull.” Heat is coming back into him, too hot and concentrating in his face. </p><p>“Ed, the way he was looking at you, it was--” </p><p>Ed pivots, swings around on his crutch and Roy is so close behind him he damn near trips over Ed. He’s still wearing his scarf and it’s hanging all lopsidedly and loose around his neck “Not everyone is <em>you</em>, Mustang, all right, people don’t-- <em>ask me on dates</em> or pine after me, all right? I know you think that shit is normal, but it’s fucking not okay, not for me. Never happened, never will, now can you just fucking drop it?”</p><p>Roy stares at him and his face is such a plain, open display of befuddlement that Ed is certain he’s drunker than he let show at the bar. His mouth is open and he’s blinking very slowly and just <em>looking</em> at Ed. </p><p>“...What?” Ed asks, finally, because he’s just fucking staring and it’s <em>weird</em>. </p><p>“Edward.” Roy raises his hands, so slowly that Ed doesn’t really have any right to be surprised when they... cradle his jaw. Roy’s thumbs are brushing so gently across his cheeks and it feels so nice even though Ed has no idea what’s happening. Did he fall asleep in the cab ride back? </p><p>“You’re gorgeous.” Roy’s hands are so damn gentle, like Ed’s stupid face is something precious. </p><p>“You’re insane.” It comes out shaky because his heart is slamming in his chest, rattling all his insides around. </p><p>“Anyone half as smart as you can see.” Ed can’t blink, can’t tear his eyes away because Roy is staring at him, holding him still with those bottomless dark pools of he has for eyes, “that you are an absolute work of art.”</p><p>“What’s wrong with you?” Ed’s voice is a whisper in his own ears and he wouldn’t think Roy could hear him but he’s so damn close. Ed can feel Roy’s breath on his face, scented with stupid dark beer he likes. </p><p>“You don’t see it, do you?” His voice is low and soft and terribly close, he’s inside Ed’s ear and the rush of noise makes every hair on the back of his neck tingle. His hands are drifting down off Ed’s jaw to smooth down the sides of his neck and Ed can feel his breath on his lips “I see it, I see you.” The tips of their noses are brushing.</p><p>“Roy.” His own voice sounds so small and so far away. Roy is so damn close and this is... this is almost kissing. They’re almost kissing. And if they kiss, when Roy’s drunk, when Roy is sober he’ll be upset about it. And that could ruin the tenuous connection they have. It could ruin <em>this</em>. Ed’s heart is throbbing in his chest and his guts are twisting up and he’s sure he’s sweating. They can’t do this, he has to make it stop but, Roy is so damn <em>close</em>. </p><p>Roy stops coming closer and that unfathomable shine in his eyes dulls, then goes out. He holds his breath for a moment then his hands drop away and Ed’s neck is cold. </p><p>“Sorry,” Roy says, putting enough space between their faces that Ed can see more of him than just his eyes. He puts his hand where his scarf is lopsidedly draped over his chest, “I, erm, I need to put this away.” He takes a half step back. </p><p>“Right,” Ed says, numbly. He watches, mute, as Roy turns and goes back to the foyer. As he turns away there’s a moment where he looks just as shaken as Ed feels. Like he also realizes how perilously close they’d come to... something. </p><p>Ed starts to turn back towards the stairs and his eventual escape. He pauses. </p><p>“Drink some water. Before you go to bed,” he says to Roy, who’s draped his scarf over his sloppily hung coat. </p><p>Roy stares at him for a beat from down the hall. </p><p>“Right,” he says. </p><p>“Right,” Ed agrees. They stare at one another a little more. At least at this distance Ed can hear his own thoughts, even if they’re mostly <em>we are both so fucking stupid</em>. </p><p>“Okay, well, goodnight. Don’t be hungover tomorrow.” He finally tears himself away and makes his slowly shuffling getaway. </p><p>“Goodnight, I’ll endeavour too--” Ed can’t hear the rest of what that handsome asshole has to say because he’s upstairs and then he’s behind a closed door and he’s mouthing <em>what the </em>fuck<em> was that</em> to himself. </p><p>-- </p><p>The next morning Ed still isn’t sure what the fuck that was. </p><p>Roy is, unsurprisingly, hungover and doesn’t get out of bed before him. It’s Sunday, which is usually his fuck-around-day where he ignores the last of his paperwork like a master procrastinator and lazes around the house with his crap paperback novels. But he still usually gets up before Ed. </p><p>Ed shuffles down, puts coffee on and liberates the Sunday post from where it’s jammed in the mail-drop. He stares vacantly at the headlines and lets his mind wander. </p><p>He’s trying to puzzle out what exactly happened last night. If he thinks about it too hard, about Roy’s hands and his too-bright eyes and slow bump of their noses, his face gets very warm and his brain shorts out. But if he removes himself from the equation, if he doesn't think about how his heart raced and his one working knee threatened to give out under him, he can work it out.</p><p>He tries to work backwards. Roy had initiated a certain level of closeness... of <em>intimacy</em>. To achieve what? To prove his point? And his point was...? That Ed was attractive? That Viktor wanted to take Ed on a date? Which was ridiculous, Viktor wanted to talk about solvents and solutes and maybe pick Ed’s brain about the atomic mechanisms of alloy formation. Ed actually had this great idea about placing a hammer in the apex of the sigil in order to mimic work hardening and make the material durable as hell. He finds a pen on the table top and starts doodling some specs for a draft in the margins of the newspaper. If he added an anvil, he could double the ductility, but he had to be wary of overworking the materially, especially a soft metal like-- wait a minute. He’s getting distracted, he was supposed to be thinking about something else. </p><p>Roy. </p><p>Ed works his tongue around his mouth thoughtfully, counting his teeth. Maybe narrowing Roy’s objective to ‘proving Viktor wants to take Ed on a date’ was too limiting, besides it didn’t directly explain Roy’s behaviour. His more abstract point had been that Ed was attractive despite his amputation. But he had no data to support that claim, so maybe he was trying to demonstrate? Roy had been drunk when he said those things. Drunkenness could contribute to an increased tactility, so maybe Roy had just touched him because he’d had some base impulse to. Drunkenness also lowered inhibitions. Was Roy inhibited? Was touching Ed and telling him he was gorgeous something he longed to do in his daily life but couldn’t for some reason? Maybe Roy was actually disgusted by Ed’s amputations while was willing to look past them when he was drunk. He ignored the heavy sinking that thought triggered in his guts. </p><p>Ed scowled at his margin doodles. He started short handing out a new equation. </p><p>If X was proximity and last night it had been achieved by equating it with inebriation and lowered inhibitions ( x =  ↓iD ), then Ed needed to find a way to soberly replicate the situation. If Roy believed, soberly, that Ed could still be desirable in spite of his disfigurations, he would react positively to stimulus. If he was full of shit, he wouldn’t and Ed would salve the burn of dying alone with the assurance that he was at least right. He spins the pen between his thumb and forefinger’s knuckle. In his baser moments, he’d perfected the ‘are you down because I'm down meet me in the bathroom’ smoulder and it could be applicable here. A come-hither look paired with physical proximity would at least reveal if Roy was repressing an impulse or if last night had just been a drunk anomaly ( cH * prox = repeat?? ).</p><p>Finally, his subject put in an appearance. Roy wanders into the kitchen, pinching the bridge of his nose and wincing against the late-morning sunlight. </p><p>“Bright,” Roy murmurs. Amused, Ed bounces the end of his pen against the table top, which rewards him with a deeper wince from Roy and a hoarse whisper of: “Cruel. Cease.” </p><p>Roy opens the cupboard with the mugs and pours himself a large cup of coffee with a smooth confidence that didn’t belong to someone blinded with a rip-roaring hangover. He sits next to Ed at the table and holds his mug with both hands.  Ed is merciful enough to remain silent while Roy caffeinates and adjusts to the throb of his brain inside his skull. Eventually, Roy sighs quietly and opens his eyes. He slides the paper out from in front of Ed so he can squint over the headlines. Reading without his glasses is going to make the headache worse. </p><p>After a moment Roy notices Ed’s doodles in the margins. He narrows his eyes further, obviously trying to parse Ed’s nonsense equation. </p><p>“What the...,” he mutters under his breath and Ed manages to smother the laughter that comes up unbidden in his throat. Then Roy looks at the sigils he’d been drafting and that must make more sense because he says, “You know, if you used a six pointed star you could increase the cooling process and save yourself from fissures.” He points and Ed leans in to visualize what he means. Their shoulders are touching. </p><p>“Huh,” Ed says, reaching across Roy to redraw the sketch to include the six points. It works, “Yeah.” Roy’s shoulder is warm. </p><p>-- </p><p>When it comes to assisting Ed with his at-home physio, compartmentalization is the name of the game. Roy copes by putting his desire to put his hands on every inch of Ed’s deep golden skin in one box and his duty as his friend and benefactor in another and never the twain shall meet. Otherwise, he would be eternally distracted by the glimmer of moisture on Ed’s clavicle and peek of his gently softening abs when he bends over and his shirt rides up. But he doesn’t notice those things, because right now inside this moment, he is obligated to help Ed for the sake of his health and wellness. </p><p>Ed isn’t making that easy today. </p><p>They’re in the den, with the coffee table pushed back to the couch so that they have more space on the rug in front of the hearth. Roy had overcome most of his throbbing hangover headache after the second cup of coffee and quieted the lurch and roll of his stomach with some unbuttered toast so Ed asked if he would mind helping him through some stretches. </p><p>Ed had made no mention of the night before, other than to poke fun at Roy’s self inflicted condition. In fact, it was as if nothing had happened, but Roy knew differently. He could recall with perfect clarity the warm structure of Ed’s jaw and cheeks in his hands, the sweet rush of his breath against Roy’s face, and the decidedly animal-like panic that sparked in his eyes as Roy toed them dangerously close to an uncrossable line. Do not enter, caution: sheer drop, bottomless pit. No turning back. </p><p>But if it made Ed more comfortable to ignore what had happened, Roy would ignore it. Perhaps that was letting himself off easy, but he couldn’t find a way to say ‘I’m sorry I came within a hair’s breadth of kissing you, I’ve been attracted to you since you exited puberty and all that baby fat dropped off you like so much chaff and revealed the most compelling creature to share a room with me and I had a moment of weakness, terribly sorry, won’t happen again’. Let sleeping dogs, as it were. </p><p>Ed is lying in front of him, spread out on the carpet, doing his darndest to extend his right leg out at an angle. Roy kneels between his spread legs and supports the stretch, one hand on the short-clad expanse of Ed’s inner thigh and the other cupped around the delicate tendons of the back of his knee. Roy found that he focused on the backs of his own hands and didn’t think about exactly how lovely every inch of Ed’s skin felt against them, he didn’t sweat behind the ears until the very end. </p><p>“Can you push it higher?” Ed asks, rotating his ankle and beginning to raise his leg higher. </p><p>“Sure,” Roy says, leaning into the stretch a little. Ed was recovering more and more range as time went on. It probably wouldn’t be long before he could do the splits again. But Roy isn’t thinking about that, he’s focusing on lifting Ed’s leg higher until he meets resistance. Ed pushes the limits of his range and draws his lower lip into his mouth and <em>groans</em> with the strain. Roy’s mouth is dry. He should be looking at his hands, not Ed’s face. Like he can sense a gaze on him, Ed opens his eyes just sliver and catches him. The corners of his mouth twitch up in a lazy, too-familiar smile and Roy has to drop his gaze immediately to keep his stomach from bottoming out. </p><p>“Lean into it?” Ed suggests and Roy does, putting his shoulder to Ed’s knee. The weight pushes Ed’s leg an inch or two higher and Ed makes the most sublime noise. This close Roy can hear the little smack of Ed’s lips as they part, releasing a delightful sigh. Roy looks at the whorl of design in the carpet just beyond Ed’s head. Ed’s calf relaxes over his shoulder and Ed exhales, “Right there” and Roy damn near chokes to death. As it is, he manages to turn his head away from Ed to choke off a short cough. He thinks he hears Ed laugh, but he can’t be sure. </p><p>“Flip me over?” Ed asks. </p><p><em>It would be my life’s greatest pleasure</em>, Roy’s lizard brain spits out. What happened to compartmentalization? What happened to his neat little boxes? He was sure he had them at some point. </p><p>“All right,” Roy says, pulling back from the stretch. </p><p>Together, they get Ed up into a sitting position -- which brings their faces so perilously close together, like déjà vu. Roy puts his hands on Ed’s shoulders and helps him scoot around, so his back is to Roy. He stretches his arms over his head, pulling on one shoulder and then the other. He gives his head a little shake and flicks his ponytail out behind him, the whip of it brushing Roy’s cheek. Then he-- </p><p>Drew his shirt up over his head. </p><p>“Kinda hot, isn’t it?” he says and it isn’t especially, except for the slowly rising temperature of Roy’s spinal fluid. Which would explain his imminent full body shut down. Roy stares as the shift and rise of Ed’s shoulders as he tosses the shirt aside and lowers his arms. When Roy doesn’t answer, he looks over his shoulder at him with his chin raised and a veritable gleam in his eyes. <em>Damn him. </em></p><p>“Can you hold my legs?” Ed asks and Roy says, “Of course” as casually as humanly possible. They’ve done this position before and it’s a little risque, but the universe made it up to him by giving him a reprieve from not-watching Ed’s face as he makes what have to be cousins to his orgasm faces. </p><p>He puts his chest to Ed’s back and spreads his legs along the outside of Ed’s so he can secure his hands over his thighs. Ed’s naked back is a cascading wave of carved muscles textured with nets of scar tissue. The temptation to put his face against the curve of Ed’s neck and just breath him in was increasingly pressing now that he could see the full, unobscured expanse of his nape and shoulders and spine it connected to. He pinches the inside of his cheek between his teeth.</p><p>His hold on Ed’s thighs shifts and settles and then Ed bends forward, spreading his legs as far as he can comfortably and stretching his back out as he dips and arcs. He moans quietly into the carpet as he raises his hands over his head and twists his hips a little. Roy’s throat is an arid wasteland. His mouth is a dustbowl. His brain is plagued by dusty tornadoes and he is left dazed and dizzy in their wake. </p><p>Ed holds the position for several excruciating moments and then the most interesting series of events happens. He turns his head so his cheek is pressed against the carpet and looks at Roy. Roy can see the smallest, shining sliver of gold looking in his direction as Ed twists his hips the other way, but adding a deeper flick and roll to it, which pushes his the curve of his ass directly back against Roy’s crotch. Which isn’t interesting insofar as it sparks heat and desire so hot and fast through Roy’s nervous system that he fears he might spontaneously combust. No, what’s interesting is that when he snaps his gaze back up to Ed’s face, his own expression a repressed contortion of bone deep want, Ed is... smirking. </p><p>“Oh,” Roy says, in the midst of a revelation, “You’re doing this on purpose.” </p><p>That takes the smirk right off Ed’s face, “Doing what on purpose?” </p><p>“You’re trying to turn me on.” And succeeding, but he didn’t need to hear Roy say it in so many words.  </p><p>“What the fuck are you talking about,” Ed turns so Roy can’t see his eyes and that proves it. </p><p>“What I can’t work out, is why,” Roy contemplates aloud, drawing his hand up off Ed’s complete leg to smooth his hand up the length of Ed’s exposed spine. If Ed has fired the first shot, it’s okay to return it, even just as a warning. A reminder that they are both here and capable of great harm. He reaches the short wayward hairs that have come loose from Ed’s ponytail at the nape of his neck and feels the shiver that runs through Ed. Message received. </p><p>“Do I-- need a reason?” comes the uncertain answer </p><p>“You have never done anything without purpose,” Roy says, “It’s the foundation of your character.” </p><p>Ed huffs laughter, just a touch resentful but he doesn’t argue.</p><p>“If you want to talk about last night, we can talk about it,” Roy says, conversationally, as he drags his hand across the width of Ed’s shoulder toward the automail. He traces loops between the anchorage bolts that hold the wing of his shoulder in place before sliding them slowly down Ed’s flank. He skirts the edge of round alchemized scar tissue and Ed poorly stifles a gasp. Now it’s Roy’s turn to smirk. </p><p>“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Ed grinds out, pushing his hips back again with purpose. Roy should stop this. The responsible thing to do would be to stop this, get Ed back into his clothes and talk this out. But he’s talked himself in so many circles around this, about this, and he wants it so badly. There’s no excuse for it other than his own weakness. </p><p>“We don’t have to talk,” Roy says and slides his hand under Ed’s amputated leg and, drawing himself back, uses his hold to turn Ed over. Ed looks up at him, surprised, with his mouth open and that’s all the invitation Roy needs to lean down over him and crush their mouths together. </p><p>He’s on his hands and knees over Edward Elric, who is spread out so artfully on Roy’s carpet that he convincingly passes for a sixth century gilded angel descended from heaven to absolve the mortal world of sin. Which was ironic, given that he was jamming his tongue in Roy’s mouth with the ferociousness and insatiability of a man possessed. He’s on his knees over Edward Elric and they are making out like the world is about to end, but instead of intervening they were just going to let it go out in style this time. Ed is grappling with Roy’s t-shirt, hauling him in closer, and <em>biting</em> Roy’s lower lip. The sharp noise Roy exhales makes Ed snicker, which in turn sparks heat through Roy’s gut. </p><p>Ed in his fantasies, ones quickly smothered or packed away, was like a piece of art. Beautiful details, life in motion made static and fixed. Something he could memorize and appreciate from every angle. Ed in practice, is writhing and twisting and nearly impossible to pin down. Never in the same place long enough to capture completely. </p><p>He smooths a hand down the length of Ed’s torso from sternum to abdomen and the sniggering laughter morphs into a low groan that Roy feels reverberating between his ribs. Ed’s mouth softens and then it’s a crush of tongue and lip between them as Roy strokes low on Ed’s belly. Eventually they part, sharing panting breaths between them and looking hazily at one another. Ed licks his lips and looks at Roy with his eyelids at half mast.  </p><p>“Your truly are a beautiful sight to--” </p><p>“I thought we weren’t talking.” Ed’s voice has this low gravel to it that is new and the notes of it make Roy’s spine tingle. He tugs on Roy’s shirt again, but Roy keeps his elbow locked over him. </p><p>“You’re stunning.” </p><p>“Shut up.” </p><p>“Captivating. Breathtaking.” </p><p>“Roy, I swear to god, I’ll--” </p><p>“You’ll what? Make me?” Ed pupils dilate and Roy comes down off his elbow to sear kisses down the length of his neck and lathe his tongue against his collar bone. </p><p>“Oh fuck,” Ed says. </p><p>“Oh, so you can talk but I can’t?” </p><p>“Yeah you talk too much. I’m revoking your privileges.” His breath hitches in the middle of his sentence, belying his dispassionate tone. </p><p>“Suppose I’ll have to find something else to do with my mouth, then.” First order of business is to tweak Ed’s nipple between his teeth, which silences any more backtalk with a whimper. Which is absolutely adorable, but speaking the adjective aloud would likely be a death sentence. </p><p>He relishes it and every other precious noise he can wring out of Ed as he kisses, licks and nibbles his way down the length of Ed’s torso. His skin is  lightly scented with sweat and salt, textured with scars and coarse pale blonde hair that trails below his belly button. Roy noses the taut planes of his stomach and lifts his chin to look up at Ed through a curtain of dark bangs. Ed is watching him, having drawn himself up on one elbow to get a better view. Pink stains his cheeks and spills down his chest, which visibly rises and falls with heavy breath, and he looks so, damn delectably debauched.</p><p>“Permission to speak?” Roy says into his abdomen. </p><p>“Denied,” Ed breathes </p><p>“It’s a shame I’m so damn insubordinate. May I take these off?” He touches the top of Ed’s loose, drawstring shorts that he tends to wear at home. They’re more comfortable over the injuries. </p><p>Ed’s gaze skews just to the left and Roy knows he’s thinking about the amputation. Already Roy can see him spiraling away to some place dark and harsh, where he assumes everyone thinks those cruel things he must tell himself. Roy needs to draw him back to reality, to this precious thing forming between them. Quickly. Roy cups his hand around where Ed’s half hard dick is obscured by his shorts and presses. </p><p>“Please?” He asks again, when Ed has finished groaning.</p><p>A panting affirmative comes and Roy loosens the drawstring and pulls the offending garment and the underwear underneath down and away with one hand. He delights in the revelation that the hair adorning Ed’s belly trails darker all the way down and wreaths his cock.</p><p>Once to twice in his life, Roy has been accused of being coy. Of being cute, or beating around the bush. This is not one such moment. A little coaxing by way of long strokes and warm breath ghosting over delicate skin brings Ed to a full erection and leaves him twisting underneath Roy. Roy makes himself comfortable, sliding an arm under Ed’s right leg and drawing it up over his shoulder. He secures a loose fist around his dick with the other hand and presses light, wet kisses along the length of him. </p><p>“Is this good?” He asks, though he would venture that it was, at a bare minimum, ‘good’ based on the way Ed’s jaw clenches and he reaches for Roy’s shoulder. </p><p>“Fuck, Mustang, do you ever fucking shut up-- <em>yes</em>, it’s fucking--<em>oh</em>.” </p><p>Roy waits until Ed is verging on complete exasperation before he draws his cock into his mouth. Ed fists his softer hand in Roy’s hair and pulls enough that Roy’s scalp tingles. He has to use his hold on Ed’s thigh to keep him from gagging him, his hips jerking forward as Roy’s nose meets wiry hair. When Roy swallows, Ed shouts, and it becomes difficult for Roy to keep his teeth covered when the impulse to grin rises in him. </p><p>Ed curses and his thigh twitches and jerks where Roy holds him as he travels the length of his cock several times over with his mouth. Up to the tip, a wet swirl of tongue, seal his lips around him and swallow him back down again. Roy can feel his pulse through a vein that throbs on the underside and Ed’s hold in his hair tightens until it’s painful. </p><p>“Mustang,” he hisses through clenched teeth. He starts to pull, but Roy has always had a greedy streak in him. He covers Ed’s hand with his own and pushes down, their combined force pushing his head down in Ed’s lap. The walls of his throat squeeze around the head of Ed’s cock and Ed’s amputated leg jerks like he’s trying to stamp his foot. </p><p>“Fucking hell, Roy, I’ll, fuck, shit,” Ed illuminates. He’s always had a way with words. </p><p>Roy hums, then moans as Ed comes in his mouth.   </p><p>Roy pulls off slowly, savouring the weight of Ed’s spent cock on his tongue. He lifts his chin and he knows exactly what he looks like as he levels Ed with a long look, his hair still scrunched in Ed’s fist and his lips flushed dark. He smudges his thumb across the still wet head of Ed’s cock and takes a great degree of pleasure in licking the moisture off his digit. </p><p>Ed pulls faces like he’s annoyed, but Roy can see where the apple of his throat bobs as he swallows twice. Roy waits for Ed’s breathing to even out and for his own ears to stop ringing, sharp echoes of ‘<em>what am I doing? Am I really doing this? Is this a dream?</em>’ before he speaks. </p><p>“Would you like to talk about it now?” </p><p>Ed draws in a deep breath and looks down at Roy. His trepidation is as plain as day. </p><p>“No,” he says, finally, and Roy can feel his heart shudder in his chest, “Not yet.” He wrenches himself up on his metal elbow and reaches for Roy’s shirt with his other hand to leverage himself all the way up until he’s sitting. Roy moves to accommodate, drawing himself up on his knees between Ed’s still sprawling legs. He becomes keenly aware of how his lounge pants catch on his erection and the drop of Ed’s gaze indicates he’s aware, too. </p><p>Ed scoots gracelessly forward and yanks on Roy’s shirt front until Roy shifts back and allows Ed access to his lap. His complete leg wraps around Roy’s waist and his amputated one rests on his hip. He lets go of Roy’s shirt in favour of dropping it in his lap, open palm rubbing against where his trousers have tented. </p><p>“Ed,” Roy says, “Maybe we should--” </p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” Ed says, leaning in to <em>bite</em> Roy’s jaw, “I’m serious. Not a word.” </p><p>Roy knows he should stop this. That they’ve crossed several lines, that they’ve strayed too far. But his traitorous hands go around Ed’s waist and haul him right into his lap. Ed spits in his palm and Roy’s guts throb, then Ed plunging his softer hand into Roy’s trousers. They both groan when he tunnels his fist around Roy’s cock. Hesitantly, he puts the automail hand on Roy’s shoulder to stabilize himself and Roy lifts a hand off the small of Ed’s back to touch his steel elbow. </p><p>“Not even if-- <em>ah</em>,” Roy starts to say before he flinches as Ed squeezes his dick too tight, a pained noise passing his lips. </p><p>“I should gag you,” Ed mutters into the side of Roy’s neck, loosening his fist as Roy’s forehead tips onto his shoulder. </p><p>“You might have to,” Roy breathlessly agrees, which doesn’t seem to warrant a penalty because Ed starts jerking him off in sweeping, nerve tingling strokes. He pushes up once, twice, but the shift of his hips threatens to unseat the unbalanced occupant of his lap and disrupt the divine rhythm of his palm up and down Roy’s shaft. Roy’s arm around Ed’s waist tightens to keep him stable and Ed repays the courtesy by circling his thumb around the head of Roy’s cock and making him moan bone deep.</p><p>“Ed,” Roy says, which isn’t enough. It doesn’t say <em>I never want this to stop</em> or <em>I’ll die thinking about this moment</em>. It doesn’t clarify <em>I’d burn down this entire country in an instant if you asked me</em> or <em>I’ve been a staunch agnostic my entire adult life but I would</em> worship <em>you</em>. It is, however, the only word his lips and tongue know how to form, so he keeps murmuring it into the sweat-tacky slopes of Ed’s shoulder and neck until his voice is rough and Ed is whispering back, “come on, show me, show me,” and Roy comes undone. </p><p>They lean against one another, the only sound in the room their soft panting breath and the deafening tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hall. Roy’s come stripes Ed’s fist and is smeared messily on Ed’s naked chest and Roy’s shirt. Cautiously, Roy tips his head to chance at glance at Ed. </p><p>There’s sweat dripping from his hairline down toward his jaw and his face is... grim. Like the weight of what they’d just done was settling down heavily on his shoulders and he wasn’t sure if he could withstand it. </p><p>“Ed,” Roy says, so softly and the breath Ed draws in quakes. Roy lifts his head off Ed’s shoulders to look at him, but Ed avoids his eyes. “Edward” he tries again. </p><p>Ed gives the shortest shake of his head, wrenching his mouth into a facsimile of a smile. Roy’s heart is hollow. Ed smears his filthy hand across Roy’s shirt, the wretched-perfect brat, and Roy can’t help the well-meaning groan he releases. </p><p>“Help me up,” Ed says, scooting out of Roy’s lap and groping around for his clothes. Roy obliges, tucking himself back into his pants before getting up on his protesting knees to help Ed wriggle back into his. They get Ed up on his foot and leaning on his crutches. There’s a moment, once neither of them are focused on the logistics of getting Ed off the floor, where they just stare at one another. Roy wants to put his arms around Ed and plead, <em>if I can’t have this ever again don’t take your friendship from me</em>. Ed hunches his shoulder and Roy can’t smother the impulse, he’s reaching out toward him. Ed doesn’t flinch away and Roy’s knuckles brush his left shoulder. </p><p>“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ed says finally, looking down past Roy’s neck rather than meeting his gaze. He draws in a deep breath, steadying himself and then his eyes come up to Roy’s and he gives Roy the cheap, hollow version of his smile again, “Don’t make me.” </p><p>What choice does Roy have? </p><p>“All right,” Roy says. He waits a beat, then another, and then tests the waters. He reaches up to brush loose hair that’s come free of Ed’s ponytail away from his face and over his shoulder, letting his fingertips linger where they touch Ed’s still-bare skin “Are you hungry?” </p><p>“Always,” Ed says, perking up and most notably not shying away from Roy’s touch. His mouth quirks into a sly grin, “I’d be surprised if you were though, didn't you just eat?”</p><p>“You are,” Roy says, trying to hold back laughter and failing, “an absolute wretch.” </p><p>“Yeah well, you still sucked my dick, so what does that make you?” The ribbing feels safe, even if it stings a little. It’s familiar paths in new territories. Ed turns away, moving toward the entryway, presumably to go to the kitchen.</p><p>“What indeed,” Roy says, his eyes go crinkled and wistful at the corners as he looks at Ed’s back. </p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>content warning: sexual situations, bad intimate communication, brief/non-graphic descriptions of pain</p><p>i had originally planned for five chapters but it got away from me, so you get six! hooray! too bad this chapter is extremely sad and just a little horny. please enjoy! thanks again for all the comments and kudos, it really makes my day to know folks are enjoying this! let me know what you think (: </p><p>someone be a hero and hook me up with the folks on the royed discord! i wanna fill kink meme prompts but the fma kinkmeme is a ghost town u_u</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Things between Ed and Roy are a little hesitant at first. </p><p>They’re circling one another, trying to adjust their orbits without crashing into one another, without triggering a heavenly catastrophe and littering the galaxy with their combined shrapnel. If they can manage to make a course correction, maybe they’ll both make it out relatively intact. </p><p>There’s a lot of looking. There had been looking before, at least on Ed’s part, but it was usually followed by a prolonged period of active not-looking, usually to avoid being caught or teased or questioned. Now it felt safe to look and Roy was looking back. </p><p>Ed would be sitting in the den, having spent several moments so deep in his reading that he hadn’t heard a single sound other than the tireless arhythmic staccato of his own thoughts for what could have been an hour or more he had no idea and Roy would be sat in his armchair just watching him. Knuckles pressed against his cheek where he is leaning on the plush arm of the chair, just watching Ed while wearing this funny gentle and enigmatic smile. Ed’s stomach ripples and his breath catches just a little and he tries to smile back in a way that looks -- what? Inviting? Relaxed? He doesn’t want to fuck this up. He’s terrified of fucking this up. </p><p>He doesn’t want to say or do anything that breaks this fragile peace they’ve made with one another. If they talked about it, if Roy asked him what this meant to him, Ed wouldn’t be able to stop himself from spilling his guts and Roy would see how much this meant, how much Ed had pinned on this, how bad Ed <em>wanted</em> this and so much more and then he might take it away. Ed could survive the end of the world, or a building being dropped on him, but he didn’t think he could survive that. </p><p>Looking is safe, familiar even, and the edge seems to have come off of it. The fearful pounding in his chest has subsided now that he’s relatively sure that Roy won’t tease him or wrinkle his nose in disgust if Ed looks a little longer or more meaningfully than was appropriate between friends. More looking was leading to an increased awareness of little details. Things he’d missed but now he carefully cataloged. </p><p>When Roy does work from home, he starts the evening with his fingers delicately poised, looking picturesquely thoughtful, on his chin and jaw but as the night wears on his hand migrates further and further up the side of his face until it tangled in the hair at his temple, practically holding his head up by force as he slaves over whatever waste-of-time bureaucracy he needs to get through. He’s getting wrinkles, feather-light and ultra delicate, just around the eyes, and when he smiles, <em>really</em> smiles, they fold and crinkle. If you look very closely, there are pencil-fine scars on the back of his right hand. In low light, the skin is just smooth enough that it reflects the light and shines. Ed can recognize parts of the flame array that aren’t blotted by the thick twists of scar tissue that mark both of Roy’s hands. </p><p>Ed observes, looks and Roy almost always catches him because he’s traded part of his soul for complete spacial awareness, probably. The impulse to look away is physically difficult to resist. He grits his teeth every time and waits for Roy to finally say <em>oh you thought this was real?</em> But it never comes. Roy just meets his eye and smiles, sometimes it’s wanton but more often it’s sweet. Fond. </p><p>So they don’t talk about it, because that might ruin it, and they try to puzzle out these new invisible orbital paths between them with varying degrees of success. </p><p>The first really successful flight comes a couple evenings after that first spontaneous night. </p><p>Ed’s curled up in the den, leafing half heartedly through some journal. He should really get his research together and submit some articles, given the quality of half-baked bullshit that reputable journals seem to publish. Since he’d come back from Creta he’d been struggling to find that <em>thing</em>. Something he could completely and wholly throw himself into. That thing had been getting Al’s body back for a long time, before, and then it had been preventing the Promised Day and saving everyone. Those things had been so important, so world-shaking, that now everything else felt small. Things were interesting, sure, puzzling out how things could be done or made or more efficient, and he had so many thoughts but nothing had that spark. Teaching was just something to do, his students were eager and interested and being at the university meant that when he had an idea or an impulse to tinker they could give him the things he needed to explore it. But nothing seemed to mean something the way it used to. Maybe that’s why he still took calls from Roy, jumping into action when there was cause for it, for the thrill and rush of how things used to be. It was kind of pathetic when he thought about it: he used to be somebody, at least other people thought he was somebody, but now he puttered around offices and labs and weighed in on other people’s research and got his jollies playing hero with the good old boys. He’d really peaked at sixteen and now he was just coasting. No, less than that, he was on a downward trajectory and one of these days he’s going to crash. </p><p>There’s some clattering at the door as the bolts unlock and Roy comes in the front door. </p><p>“Hey,” Ed calls, not looking up until he realizes Roy’s answer isn’t forthcoming. He turns toward the door and sees Roy shuffling forward, clearly dead on his feet. He dumps his coat on the rack and comes down the hall into the den, unbuttoning his shirt sleeves and his collar on the way. </p><p>He then dumps himself on the couch very close to Ed, practically on top of him. He sighs very loudly and tips his head back against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. He looks exhausted. </p><p>“That bad, huh?” Ed says, closing his journal and tossing it on the coffee table. Roy hums an affirmative, lolling his head to the side and slowly opening his eyes. Ed hasn’t lit the fire yet so the room is kind of dim, but the lamp light is warm enough to soften the bags under Roy’s eyes and brighten the dark depths of his eyes. He had been frowning but now, looking at Ed, he smiles so slowly and gently that Ed’s heart threatens to implode. The only way to avoid a complete boil over crisis is to lean forward, close what miniscule gap exists between them and kiss Roy. So he does. </p><p>Roy kisses him back, slow and warm, almost reverently with a barely audible pleased-surprised moan vibrating between them. They separate and Ed’s lips tingle. Roy tips his head further forward, brushing their noses and cheeks against one another. He makes a thoughtful sound and Ed prompts him with a quiet, “yeah?” </p><p>“It’s better now,” Roy says, his smile transitioning from something small and sweet to something a little closer to shit-eating, melting Ed’s guts. This gorgeous wretch could ruin him. Ed is stupider than anyone ever gave him credit for, because he was ready to let him and then thank him for the privilege. Ed gives his shoulder a little playful shove and Roy laughter shakes through both of them. </p><p>-- </p><p>It’s becoming easier to interpret Ed’s body language as time goes on. By and large, Ed is the kind of person who speaks his thoughts with very little consideration for their consequences. He values transparency and discovery over things like courtesy and ceremony. It’s a quality Roy has always been envious of, at least when it wasn’t making his life hell while he fielded complaints about ‘that little mouthy Fullmetal brat’. But there appear to be moments when Ed is not immune to the pressures of a delicate moment, or perhaps it was more accurate to say there were moments when he’s body spoke his truth more readily than his mouth. </p><p>When he wants to be held, he leaves the blanket he has draped over his lap turned down on one edge like an invitation for Roy to curl up under it with him. He holds his automail arm across his chest and turns his shoulder away, partially curling in on himself. Roy suspects that this accomplishes two subconscious goals: to self soothe with the weight of the automail across his body and to bring his body heat into the cold metal so that if Roy curls up against him, the steel won’t be so biting. Roy pulls the blanket over his lap and, without venom, Ed calls him a thief and a scoundrel, swatting limply at Roy’s hand as he puts it around Ed’s waist. He hooks his chin over Ed’s shoulder and skims whatever he’s reading as Ed settles against him. It’s a companionable kind of intimacy that after an hour or two makes them both drowsy, but Ed is usually the first to drop off. His head tilts against Roy’s and his breathing evens out, temple resting against Roy’s cheek. </p><p>When he’s aroused, he stares. It’s not a subtle look, by any stretch of the imagination. Mouth open, eyes low, maybe a peek of tongue flirting with his bottom lip. But if Roy catches him and stares back his face stains pink all the way down his neck. When Roy smiles knowingly and saunters over he sputters and shrinks away. He embarrasses easily, but if Roy lowers the register of his voice and speaks very softly into Ed’s ear, if he puts his arms around him and draws them together with intention the embarrassment melts away. Ed is pure sex once things are in motion, all that beautiful hair and richness of his skin flaring warm beneath Roy’s hands. His eyes are always what does Roy in. They’re bright and honeyed sweet, his eyelashes drop low and Roy is compelled to move closer, be nearer so he can see each sparkle and fleck of them in the low light. Ed lets Roy back him against a wall, which is a bit of a gambit in and of itself with only three legs between them, and when their bodies push together his eyes alight and his teeth are so damn sharp that Roy knows if anyone is cornered here, it’s him. </p><p>There are times too when his own body reads Ed’s more easily than he anticipates. He comes down from his bedroom one morning, buttoning the collared shirt he wears under his uniform jacket. He’s already eaten and when he’d left the kitchen to dress Ed hadn’t been up yet. He’s here now though, sleep rumpled with linen folds pressed into his cheek and his hair an absolute disaster. He sleeps with it in a ponytail but the tie is always halfway out of his hair by morning and he leaves it hanging tangled over his shoulder. He’s sipping a sizable mug of coffee with no other breakfast in sight.</p><p>“You should eat something,” Roy says, buttoning his cuff. Ed grunts and blinks at him slowly over the rim of his coffee cup. Roy pauses to take a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator and puts them on the counter next to the stove top. “Promise me you’ll eat something before you start reading? I don’t want you to wither away when I’m not looking, your brother will take the skin off my back as repayment.” </p><p>Ed rubs the sleep out of his eyes with his softer hand and moans an affirmative with what sounds like a slightly stronger level of comprehension. </p><p>“All right,” Ed says, putting his mug down as Roy approaches him, “I’ll see you later.” </p><p>Roy had just meant to touch his shoulder, something brief but friendly on his way out, but Ed lifts his chin slightly, angling his face towards Roy and his body reacts on instinct. </p><p>He bends and puts his hand on Ed’s jaw to hold him as he kisses him. The gesture is sweet even if Ed’s lips are bitter, and there’s a chaste gentleness to it that makes Roy’s heart skip in the cage of his ribs. They part and Ed looks as surprised as he feels, blinking twice with his mouth open. Roy rubs the hinge of Ed’s jaw with his thumb and clears his throat. </p><p>“See you tonight,” he says, locking his expression into a vaguely flirty smirk. The guise of playful flirting is surprisingly defensible when you’ve got honest to god love hidden in your heart. Ed blinks at him, still slightly stunned </p><p>“Right, yeah,” Ed says, eyes flicking from Roy’s to his mouth and back again, “See you” </p><p>Roy lets his fingers drag along Ed’s jaw and he pulls away and he doesn’t have to look back to know Ed watches him leave. </p><p>They still haven’t spoken what’s happening between them in plain terms, but maybe they don’t need to. Maybe they can just keep on like this, living in a dream Roy never let himself have for long. The namelessness of each touch, each kiss makes it feel stolen, a secret between them kept from the rest of the world. It gives Roy a thrill each time, but the kiss they shared in the kitchen, felt warmer than that. Something sweet and comforting. Roy had owned this house for years, but for the first time, it was beginning to feel like a home. </p><p>-- </p><p>“I’m gonna take a bath,” Ed announces one evening, a month after their first impulsive foray into sexual intimacy. </p><p>Roy drops his newspaper where he’s holding it open to watch Ed start to coil his hair up into a bun on the top of his head. </p><p>He tends to put his hair up when he bathes, preferring to wash it in the shower as opposed to the tub, which is a salacious piece of information that allows Roy to summon two beauteous scenes in his mind: first, of Ed in Roy’s very nicely tiled shower with his hair down, water cascading down the length of his body, with gold hair dark and heavy with wet, soaping himself luxuriously. The second is of Ed submerged under sudsy water in Roy’s clawfoot tub, face flushed from the steaming warm water, a few wayward flyaways freeing themselves from his hair tie to cling wetly to his nape. A third, hybrid imagining emerged: Ed, his body obscured by opaque water and suds and his loose hair saturated with water.  Water dipping from his hairline down his temple and cheek, hair below the surface subject to the dream-like float and flow of fluid dynamics. Beauty and temptation incarnate, Roy is ready to worship at that altar. </p><p>“Y’alright?” Ed says, arching an eyebrow with some concern, because Roy has been staring at him mutely for several more moments than the announcement really warranted. </p><p>“Couldn’t be better,” Roy says, folding his paper up and putting it on the table, “May I assist you?” </p><p>“Nah, I’ll be fine,”  Ed says, and when Roy stands he waves him off, “Seriously, I don’t want to be a pain.” </p><p>“Oh no, I might have to suffer the indignity of seeing your gorgeous naked form, glistening and soapy.” The sarcasm doesn’t seem to take the edge off of Ed’s embarrassment, judging by the colour of his face, but he still swats at Roy playfully. </p><p>“Really,” Roy continues, “I don’t mind. I could wash your hair for you.” </p><p>Ed reaches for the golden bun perched messily on the top of his head, “Are you trying to tell me my hair stinks?” </p><p>“Nearly just the opposite,” Roy says, approaching him to put a hand on Ed’s waist and the other on his raised wrist, “Indulge me?” </p><p>Ed narrows his eyes at him suspiciously, but the way he tilts his body into Roy’s hands answers the question before he even speaks. He pulls his wrist free of Roy’s hold in favour of putting his hand on Roy’s chest, high near his shoulder. </p><p>“I guess somebody has to,” Ed says, trying to look put upon but his smile shines through. </p><p>They get upstairs to the bathroom, Roy following Ed up the stairs at a distance that both affords him the space he needs to maneuver on his crutches and is short enough that if Ed trips or stumbles he’ll be right there behind him to catch him. </p><p>Roy starts running the bath while Ed undresses. Roy has the good grace not to stare, which he’s very proud of himself for, but he can’t help but notice that once Ed gets down to his underwear he hesitates. They haven’t undressed one another since that first night, spending most evenings vigorously making out in the den without passing that threshold. It has occurred to Roy that <em>talking</em> about their arrangement might actually facilitate more regular undressing and possibly lead to lovemaking, but Ed hasn’t breathed a word about it and Roy’s terrified of spooking him. So he’ll live with that brief but precious look at Ed’s naked form.</p><p>Not that Roy hasn’t been recalling the exact shape and sculpt of Edward’s naked body laid out on his carpet with as much vivid colour and detail that his pathetically human brain has been able to retain. Which he has, daily, much to the exasperation of Lieutenant Hawkeye. He’s been spending a fair bit of time staring out the window revisiting some precious details when he was definitely supposed to be doing something else if the tapping of her boot echoing through the office is to be believed. </p><p>“I promise not to peek, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Roy teases, but keeps his gaze lowered to watch the tub fill. </p><p>There’s some muted sputtering and a rush of fabric before Ed holds on to Roy’s shoulder and hops closer to the tub.</p><p>“Stop flirting and help me take this off,” Ed grouses, mauvering himself carefully while still holding Roy’s shoulder so he can sit on the side of the tub. He’s beginning to untie the laces of his leg brace. It’s a complicated looking fixture around Ed’s leg, made of leather, several metal splints and thick laces that thread it all together tightly around Ed’s limb. It comes off only when Ed’s sleeps, bathes or does physio. Ed is working on the laces that bind it around his thigh so Roy gets down on one knee to loosen it where the laces are tied just under Ed’s kneecap. As promised, he keeps his eyes on his work despite his proximity to and profound desire for Ed’s nakedness. </p><p>It takes them a couple minutes to get the contraption loose enough that Roy can begin to actually take it off of him. Once it’s free, Roy carefully arranges it on the bathroom counter. Ed’s naked leg is crisscrossed with indentations where the cords and leather had been pressing tightly into his skin. The bruises from the accident have long since faded but there are still webs of new scars forming alongside and atop old ones all up the length of the limb. Roy doesn’t let his gaze linger for long because he knows Ed is watching him and every errant moment is another weight on his self-conscious mind. </p><p>Getting Ed into the tub is something of a challenge. Ed gives Roy his softer hand and he braces the automail one against the side of the tub and carefully lifts and then lowers his leg into the bathwater. There’s a little bit of sloshing as he lowers himself into the water completely. </p><p>When he’s certain Ed has settled, Roy lets go of his hand and lays a folded towel on the floor near the head of the bathtub. He liberates a small metal bowl that he’s fairly certain came from Knox, left behind during a midnight medical emergency. He keeps it handy as he lowers himself to kneel on the towel, putting himself just behind Ed’s shoulder </p><p>In the tub, Ed has slunk down low enough that his nose is submerged in the water and his face is beginning to flush with the warmth of the bath. Roy rolls up his sleeves, tucking them up over his elbows, before he lightly touches the nape of Ed’s neck. </p><p>“Can I take this down?” He asks, brushing his fingertips up into Ed’s hair where it’s still messily bunned on his head. </p><p>Ed lifts his head up from where it’s submerged under the surface of the water and he hesitantly says, “If you want. You don’t have to wash it. I haven’t even brushed it today, it’s probably a rat’s nest.” He’s trying to pass it off as a joke, but nervousness shines through the myriad of qualifications. The urge to lean forward and kiss the warm, wet curve of his neck to comfort him is strong, but Roy resists. </p><p>“I said I would wash it, I’ll wash it.” He frees the hair tie from where it’s roped Ed’s hair together. The bulk of his hair swings down, unkempt but still honey bright and glorious, cascading down into the bath water and sticking to Ed’s neck and back. Ed tips his head forward to let Roy gather and direct the wet tangles. </p><p>He touches the length of Ed’s hair, taking care to swipe wayward locks from spilling forward into his face by tucking them behind his ear. He fills the little metal bowl with water and gently tips it over what hair is dry on the top of Ed’s head. He puts his hand across Ed’s forehead to keep it from streaming into his eyes. Ed, to his credit, is as quiet and compliant as Roy has ever seen him. The heat of the warm water eroding the tension in Ed’s muscles might have something to do with it, because he begins to go lax and lean back against the curve of porcelain. He even gives up a soft sigh as Roy trails his fingers through his hair, making sure it’s wet enough to take soap. </p><p>They stay in companionable silence as Roy doles shampoo into his palm, works up a lather in his hands and then begins to apply it to Ed’s scalp and hair. </p><p>Roy had expected it to be difficult not to look at Ed’s body, so readily available and completely exposed, but it’s surprisingly easy to focus on the work he’s set out before himself, gently cleaning every lock of Ed’s hair and taking care to softly scrape his nails over Ed’s scalp. He’s experiencing a unique gratification, knowing that when he sees Ed’s hair shining tomorrow, catching the sunlight that reflects off the copper pans in the kitchen, he’ll have had a hand in its care. Every so often Ed will make a small, appreciative noise and that’s enough to thrill his most basic of instincts. He’s doing good, he’s helping. He bristles with pride. </p><p>Once he’s satisfied that Ed’s hair is well washed, he puts his soapy hand on the back of Ed’s neck and applies gentle pressure. </p><p>“Tip your head back?” He requests and Ed obliges, tipping his head back into Roy’s hand so Roy can support his neck while most of his hair rinses clean. The trust embedded in the gesture isn’t lost on Roy and his heart clenches in his chest. He fills the little metal bowl again and tips that over Ed’s scalp again, twice over to be sure he’s rinsed it thoroughly. Ed’s face, flushed warm and skin shining with moisture, is nothing short of divine. Like a young sun god, come to Earth to delight in it’s pleasures. Roy would be a dutiful votary for the remainder of his regretfully mortal life, given the opportunity. </p><p>Ed opens his eyes slowly, neck still cradled in Roy’s palm, and looks almost dazedly up at him. </p><p>“You done waxing poetic over my hair, or what?” he murmurs, a self deprecating twist to his smirk. Roy guides him up so he can sit properly against the cool side of the tub. </p><p>“Not just yet,” he says, reaching for a towel to dry his hands off with. He holds the side of the tub and hoists himself up on protesting knees, “I’m just going to fetch something from my bathroom.” </p><p>“You make the dog jokes too easy, it’s not fun anymore,” Ed calls after him as he leaves the bathroom to duck through his bedroom to the ensuite. He rifles through his toiletries and then returns to find Ed soaping and rinsing himself, the planes of his chest glistening. Ah, there’s the lecherous heat, creeping up Roy’s spine and making his palms sweat. He is only human after all. He sets his pilfered bottle on the counter. </p><p>“What’s that?” Ed asks, squinting at the label but unable to parse it at this distance. </p><p>“It’s for after,” Roy says, freeing a bath sheet from the nearby cupboard, “are you ready to come out?” </p><p>“Yeah, I hate getting all pruned,” Ed says, putting both hands on the sides of the tub and beginning to leverage himself up out of the water. Roy doesn’t stare, mostly because he’s busy trying to prevent Ed from slipping and cracking his beautiful skull on Roy’s tile floor and spilling his genius brains everywhere. He leaves Ed leaning against the counter with the bath sheet to towel off and unplugs the tub. </p><p>Ed has tucked the sheet around his waist when Roy turns back around, his hair rubbed over but still dripping. Roy retrieves another towel and gently begins to help drying Ed’s hair. </p><p>“Didn’t your mother ever tell you you’ll catch a cold sleeping with your hair wet?” Roy says, lowering the towel and finger combing through the tangles in Ed’s hair. </p><p>“Sure she did, doesn’t make it any less apocryphal,” Ed says with a smirk that is decidedly fond. He holds still while Roy sorts out of his hair some more, enduring some touching and stroking that isn’t strictly necessary. Roy picks up the bottle he’d fetched earlier and tips a little pool of oil into his palm and then slicks his hands together. </p><p>“What’s that?” Ed says, some skepticism in his voice but he doesn’t duck out of the way when Roy begins to work his hands through Ed’s hair, coating the still-wet strands in the lightly scented oil. </p><p>“It wards off nesting rats,” Roy says, taking care to gather the hair tucked behind Ed’s ears. </p><p>“Sounds apocryphal,” Ed mutters, tipping his chin up to allow Roy greater access.</p><p>“Sometimes I wonder if you were born a skeptic, or it’s just a by-product of your inordinately stubborn nature.” </p><p>“Maybe it’s a consequence of self determination,” Ed says, disinterested, and when Roy looks into his face he sees that his eyes are closed. Roy’s hands are mostly oil free now but he indulges in raking his fingernails lightly through the hair on the nape of Ed’s neck. He earns the slightest flutter of eyelash for his trouble. </p><p>“Isn’t that what I said?” Roy muses and Ed laughs just a little. He lowers his hands from Ed’s hair, “Would you like me to braid it?” </p><p>“Nah,” Ed says, opening his eyes and turning to scour the counter for his abandoned hair tie, “it gets all kinky if I braid it while it’s wet.” </p><p>“Are you opposed to kinkiness?” Roy asks, because he can’t help himself and because he can see Ed’s face go a lovely strawberry colour in the mirror’s reflection. </p><p>“Well,” Ed stammers, “In my hair, yeah.” </p><p>“So, no hair kinks?” Roy asks, trailing his fingers through the length of Ed’s hair where it cascades down his bare back. The shiver that earns is nearly imperceptible, but he recognizes the way Ed’s eyes flash wide for just a second. He looks at Roy in the mirror. </p><p>“I feel like we’re having two different conversations,” Ed says, frowning. His blush hasn’t dissipated though and that undercuts the severity of his glare significantly. Roy draws his hand out of Ed’s hair to touch his soft shoulder. </p><p>“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, I’m talking about your hair,” he says, unable or unwilling to repress the smirk of his lips before he dips to press a kiss to the skin of Ed’s still wet shoulder. Ed’s glare is more of a reward than it has any right to be. </p><p>They finish toweling Ed off and Ed slips his boxers back on under the towel with a level of discretion Roy doesn’t think is completely necessary, but he doesn’t comment on it for fear of embarrassing Ed. They gather up Ed’s clothes and Roy carries his brace for him while he carefully naviages down the hall toward the guest bedroom. </p><p>Roy waits in the doorway while Ed puts his clothes in a hamper and leverages himself into the bed with his crutches. He looks at Roy expectantly. </p><p>“Are you gonna tuck me in or what?” He props his crutches up next to the bedside. </p><p>“I’d have brought my paperwork if I’d known you needed a bedtime story.” Roy crosses over to the bedside to avail Ed’s brace to him for the morning. </p><p>“That shit is so boring I’m surprised it doesn’t put you to sleep.” </p><p>“It makes a concerted effort to,” Roy says, taking up the corner of the duvet and holding it aloft as Ed wrestles his less than cooperative limbs under the blankets. </p><p>“I was kidding about tucking me in,” Ed gripes, shoving at his pillows only a little petulantly. </p><p>“Were you?” Roy gives Ed his most winsome grin and he’s certain that he’ll get a pillow lobbed in his face any moment. Ed’s loathsome glare is usually a good indicator. He avoids being smothered by leaning over and catching his lips on Ed’s, who tries to punish him by biting his lower lip. The real punishment is having to pull away again when Ed is looking up at him, eyes practically glowing in the low light and looking so exactly at Roy that his skin throbs. </p><p>“Goodnight, Edward,” He says, trailing fingers across the thin skin just below Ed’s jaw. </p><p>Ed hesitates for just a beat, like he’s about to ask ‘<em>sleep here with me</em>’ or ‘<em>don’t go just yet</em>’. But he doesn’t ask and Roy doesn’t offer. Did that tow the line too close to <em>speaking</em> about what was happening between them? Roy doesn’t know where the lines are and he’s certain he’s millimetres away from tripping over it most days. </p><p>“G’night,” is what Ed says, looking at Roy just a fraction too long before he turns away to bury himself under the bulk of quilts and duvets he swaddles himself in at night. </p><p>In the morning, Ed’s hair is so damn shiny and whisper-soft through his fingers that he wants to call in sick and spend the day bundled on the couch just petting him. Maybe if he makes Edward call Riza, she won’t notice he’s lying through his damn teeth and come to drag him out of the house by his ear until at least noon. </p><p>Ed sits at the kitchen island when Roy comes down stairs, running his fingers through his own hair while he looks over the morning newspaper. He stops as soon as he realizes Roy is watching, dropping his hand too quickly. </p><p>Roy doesn’t comment, but he does indulge himself by pressing a kiss to the top of Ed’s head on his way out the door. He smells like the most divine combinations of both their scents and he keeps drifting back to the memory of it over the course of the day. </p><p>-- </p><p>Physio has ridden Ed hard and put him away wet. He’d left so much of himself out on the mat that Roy had to practically carry him to the car afterwards. He’s not even sure he’ll be able to get up the stairs later, he might have to sleep where he’s crashed on the couch.</p><p>Roy lights the fire with a snap and sets about making them each a cup of tea. He won’t make anything with caffeine this late, the miserable bastard, but at least it’ll be warm and comforting for Ed’s aches and pains. </p><p>He joins Ed on the couch a short while later, a mug in each hand. Ed eagerly accepts his and only burns the roof of his mouth a little by sipping it too quickly. Roy’s hand insinuates itself against Ed’s flesh shoulder blade, working his palm against the curvature of bone and muscle until Ed moans against the rim of his mug. The hand disappears briefly as Roy sets his mug down and then he is pressing both thumbs into the wings of Ed’s shoulders and digging into tense muscle and twisted scar tissue. </p><p>“Fuuuck,” Ed drawls, dropping his head back as he rolls his shoulders and tries to reestablish the cartilage in his bones, “that’s really good.” </p><p>“Is it?” Roy murmurs, too close to Ed’s ear and it somehow tickles all the way down across Ed’s body into low in his guts. Ed tips his head just a little further back and looks at Roy over his shoulder. The fire light makes his eyes fucking sparkle and Ed is powerless and simple to the dance and flicker of them. He’s turning towards Roy before he even has time to consider exactly why he is. </p><p>“Could be better,” he says, his eyes dropping from Roy’s damned carmel dark eyes to his mouth which looks just as sweet. </p><p>“Really? I’m accepting constructive criticism at this time.” He’s smirking, prick. </p><p>“Is there a form I can fill out?” Ed’s aching muscles protest, but he reaches for Roy anyways, putting his hand across Roy’s body to hold his shoulder and using his grip to leverage himself closer, dragging himself half into Roy’s lap. Roy accommodates him, holding his waist and drawing him in closer. </p><p>“I only take oral submissions.” The closer their faces get the brighter Roy’s eyes shine and Ed must have been a moth in a past life. The sparks will burn him no doubt, but at least it’ll be pretty. </p><p>“I’ve never submitted to anything in my life,” Ed mutters, checking out whatever half baked conversation they’ve been muddling their way through. He fists his hand in Roy’s shirt and hauls, dragging his dead weight limbs right into Roy’s lap proper. </p><p>“At least, not orally--” Roy starts to quip, but Ed’s real tired of talking so he crashes their mouths together, more bruising than kissing and with more teeth than is strictly necessary, but Roy’s groaning like it’s the best damn thing that’s happened to him all day so it can’t be that bad. </p><p>Ed’s grip on Roy’s shirt tightens because he needs the leverage to keep from falling on his ass and Roy must feel the tension in his thighs and abdomen because he puts his arms around Ed’s waist and hauls him in close. </p><p>Grinding is a lot harder to do when you’ve only got a leg and half and most of that is sheathed  in stiff leather and steel splints, but Trisha Elric didn’t raise a quitter. He pushes his ass into Roy’s lap, gets his teeth into Roy's lower lip, and trails his hands down the front of Roy’s shirt to pluck uselessly at the lowest available button. Roy is hissing curses against Ed’s mouth and Ed is laughing, drunk on a cocktail of desire, exhaustion, and desperation. </p><p>Ed wants to be naked, he wants to be in a bed and he wants to have Roy over him looking so damn fond Ed’s guts liquify. He wants to hear his own name in Roy’s mouth over and over like it’s the only thing his perfect mouth knows how to say. He wants Roy to put his hands on Ed’s skin and for the brain melting, gut wrenching <em>love</em> Ed feels in his stupid heart, in his broken bones to tansmit across the electric thread between them. He wants it to feel safe and secure and meaningful and as sure as the stars. </p><p>But that’s not what it feels like. It’s grappling with one another, too frantic to get their clothes off and panting into one another’s mouths because they can’t stand to wrench themselves apart long enough to breathe. Roy’s name half forms in Ed’s mouth, but then his heart skips and stutters with <em>what if</em> and it dies. It’s painful, it’s needy. It’s good but it hurts. </p><p>They keep grinding until Roy’s fisting his hands in whatever part of Ed’s clothes he can find and hauling him down hard enough that Ed has to swallow a yelp when his amputated knee catches on the couch, but the pain kind of spurns him on and he’s writhing in Roy’s lap when Roy comes in his pants like a fucking teenager. Roy doesn’t let up, doesn't stop to catch his breath, just presses his hand against the front of Ed’s pants, works his palm against his covered dick and stares into Ed’s eyes until Ed has to flinch away because he’s coming too. </p><p>They lean against one one another, panting until they catch their breath enough to be able to clean up a little. If Ed had been half dead when he walked in the door earlier, he hates to think exactly how dead he is now. Getting up the stairs is a slog and Ed fights gravity on each step but he makes it to the top without falling backwards into Roy’s waiting arms. At the top, the fatigue catches up with him and he leans hard on his crutches. He must sway a little because Roy puts his hand on Ed’s shoulder. </p><p>“Are you all right?” The concern is palpable and makes Ed’s skin prickle with irritation and affection simultaneously. </p><p>“Yeah, I’m fine, just tired.” He wishes he could scrounge up the energy to smile, because it might assuage the guilty look Roy is giving him now. “Seriously, I’m fine.” </p><p>He shuffles further down the hall, practically dragging his foot when another pang of fatigue hits him and he knocks the elbow against the wall painfully. He recoils and braces for another impact when he tips over, but it never comes. Roy is right there, holding his automail arm and keeping him upright. </p><p>“I’m not going to let you carry me to bed,” Ed says, closing his eyes to wait out the vertigo and swaying a little on his feet. </p><p>“Why ever not, I could be a perfect gentleman about it.” Ed doesn’t have to see Roy’s face to know he’s smiling that stupid bitter-sweet gentle bullshit that he pulls when he thinks Ed’s not looking. </p><p>“You’ve never been perfect in your life,” Ed says, a fundamental lie -- Roy is perfect; perfectly handsome, perfectly clever, perfectly charming, perfectly funny, perfectly brilliant. It had driven Ed up the fucking wall when he was an insulant teen, spurning him on to pick every petty fight he could and take every opportunity to climb right up Roy’s nose. Now it was a new kind of maddening, that still made Ed’s blood boil and his skin tighten, but in a hotter, deeper way. Roy is every inch perfect and if Ed wasn’t already wrecked, he’d be ruined by it. </p><p>“I could be, just this once.” Roy’s voice is closer now and Ed can feel the warmth of his breath against his ear. </p><p>Lethargy and desire are twin pulses coursing through Ed’s body and they leave him doubly exhausted. </p><p>“I’m too tired to argue with you about this,” Ed says, drooping wearily and letting Roy and his crutches keep him upright.</p><p>“Come to bed with me then,” Roy says, trailing his hand up the length of Ed’s automail arm, which he can barely feel but the dull sensation of the pressure plates communicating that information up his nerves still makes the hair on the back of his neck. </p><p>“Mustang, I’m forty seconds from passing out face down in one of your stupidly fancy pillows. You’re not going to get any more action out of me.” Weren’t young people supposed to have boundless stamina and basically no refractory periods? Was he getting old? Hopefully it was just a byproduct of recovering from grievous injury, otherwise he was going to have to find a bridge to throw himself off of before anyone noticed he was <em>old</em> now. </p><p>“Sleeping beside you would be more gratifying than I can express to you in words,” Roy says, pressing a kiss to Ed’s temple and brushing his palm across Ed’s shoulders. Roy’s touches spoke their own languages sometimes -- a light, tickling brush for flirtation that bled into a firm stroke of security and comfort; both were so damn irresistible. </p><p>Ed narrows his eyes skeptically, “Is this you vying for that ‘perfect gentleman’ title?” </p><p>“This is me asking you if you would spend the night with me, which would bring me an immeasurable about of comfort and joy and not just because it affords me the ability to ensure you don’t smother yourself in a pillow or hang yourself when you get tangled in a flat sheet and fall out of bed at five o’clock in the morning,” Ed’s narrowed eyes sharpen to a full on glare, “Please?” </p><p>Ed lets them both stew in the proposition for a moment, giving Roy plenty of time to laugh it off and admit he was kidding, but that moment never comes so he shrugs off Roy’s hand on his back and pulls himself forward on his crutches, determined to ignore gravity’s vengeful pull on his tired body mass, towards Roy’s bedroom door. </p><p>“Fine, but I don’t wanna hear any complaints about how I steal all the blankets. You asked for this.” </p><p>“I wouldn’t dare,” Roy says behind him and Ed can hear the smile in that too. </p><p>Roy’s bedroom is as finely furnished at the rest of his house, with a plush rug and a sturdy looking dark wood four post bed. The bed is neatly made, with the corners of the rich dark sheets tucked and folded crisply. Maybe if Ed’s lucky, Roy won’t notice any oil stains he leaves behind for at least a couple weeks. There are heavy brass lamps sitting on a pair of bedside tables on each side of the bed. The table further from the door, obviously on Roy’s preferred side, is crowded with the daily object armory of a man who tries to do as much as possible without getting out of bed. There’s a telephone, an alarm clock, Roy’s silver pocket watch, an empty water glass, a notepad and pen, and a series of amber colored pill bottles. They’re too far away for Ed to make out the labels. </p><p>Roy turns the lamps on and draws the thick curtains closed, blotting out the amber lamplight from the street outside. The intimacy of their setting dawns on Ed and he lingers, trapped, near the doorway and shuffles awkwardly on his crutches. </p><p>Roy is unbuttoning his decidedly rumpled collared shirt (gee, whose fault was that...) and looking at Ed, “Do you need anything from your room? I can get it for you.” His expression is completely neutral and Ed hates him for it. He’s granted Ed access to the innermost level of his sanctuary; he doesn’t even have the sense to be embarrassed or anxious about it. </p><p>“Nah, I’m good.” Ed’s leg pangs with the exertion of being vertical, and now that there’s an extremely comfortable looking bed within his sight line. His brain is fritzing too much to resist its pillowy horizontal draw and he hauls himself forward, awkward intimate tension be damned. He gets to the edge of the bed and just gives up, tipping himself forward on his crutches and letting himself fall face first into Roy’s bed. His crutches fall by the wayside with an indelicate clatter, but it’s worth it for the facefull of soft linen. There’s a wool blanket draped over the end of the bed that Ed is planning on pilfering before the night is over.</p><p>He luxuriates as Roy picks up his crutches and props them up against the empty bedside table nearer the door. He touches Ed’s leg, just above the knee. </p><p>“Roll over, I’ll help you undress,” he says. </p><p>Ed uses his automail arm to wrench himself up and over onto his back, sprawling bonelessly. “How gentlemanly of you,” he grouses with as much irony as he can manage, which is apparently unwarranted because Roy strips him down to his shorts without any of the lingering caresses or unnecessary fondling he’s regularly treated to. Not even a single squeeze or pat that could be interpreted as fondling. Ed closes his eyes and dozes just a little when Roy’s hands disappear from his body as he ghosts away to do whatever nighttime ritual stuff he does in here. He hears the door open and close but the bed is so damn comfortable that Ed can’t be bothered to peek an eye open to see what’s going on. </p><p>He moans in protest when Roy’s hand reappears, jostling his knee gently. </p><p>“Come brush your teeth, your brother will kill me if you get a cavity.” </p><p>“Bold of you to assume he’s planning on forgiving you for letting me break so many limbs.” Ed holds an arm out for Roy to help draw him up off the fluffy snuggle cloud Roy’s been passing off as a mattress. He opens his eyes and sees that Roy has retrieved his toothbrush from the other bathroom, the absolutely tyrant. He’s wearing his stupidly cute matching pajama set and Ed hates that he can’t take back thinking that it’s cute. </p><p>“Bold of you to assume anyone can ‘let’ you do anything.” Roy dodges smoothly when Ed lashes his foot out at his kneecap.</p><p>With Ed’s arm over Roy’s shoulders, they three-legged hobble and hop over to Roy’s ensuite which is somehow even bigger and nicer than the other bathroom Ed’s been using. They brush their teeth and Roy smudges toothpaste foam from Ed’s chin with his thumb when he dribbles on himself. Roy washes his face and Ed teases him while he appies a layer of lightly scented cream to his skin and Roy deadpans about how dry Ed’s t-zone is. </p><p>There’s still no groping as they cross back to the bed and Roy helps Ed actually get under the covers and lay his head on a pillow. There’s some shuffling and the flicking off of lights and then blissful darkness and the softest damn bed Ed’s ever laid in. The mattress dips next to him where Roy climbs into bed and the blankets are drawn up over his shoulder. Fingers card through his hair then stroke the nape of his neck until he moans quietly. Then there’s a kiss pressed to his forehead and he doesn’t have the wherewithal to tell Roy how gross that is, since apparently his t-zone is a desert of dead skin. </p><p>“Goodnight, Edward,” comes the voice that is twice as smooth as the sheets they’ve wrapped themselves in. Ed wants to open his eyes and say <em>don’t say it like that, like you mean it, like you cherish me, it’s not fair if you don’t mean it</em>. He wants to shove Roy out of the bed, maybe smother him with one of these pillows that are filled with unicorn hair or something just as fantastic and say <em>you don’t know how much I want this and how little I deserve it</em>. But he’s so damn tired and Roy’s hand is so damn gentle on the back of his neck that he can’t resist dropping off into sleep. </p><p>In the morning, he’s tangled in more than his fair share of the sheets and blankets and Roy is dressing in his uniform. Ed hunkers down with his face wedged and partially obscured by the pillow to watch Roy button his shirt and straighten the belting of his calvary skirt. Ed’s hair has smelled of Roy since Roy had put that stupid fancy oil in it and now Ed can feel every inch of his skin perfumed with the scent of Roy. Maybe he’ll bring his reading up here after breakfast and hide out in Roy’s sheets. There’s even a clock so he can ostensibly keep track of time and make his way downstairs early enough that when Roy comes home the sheets will be cold and he’ll be none the wiser. </p><p>“Are you gonna get up, or should I prepare to exorcise you from the bed by force?” </p><p>Ed groans, dropping the mass of duvet he’s hiked up around his face, “At least exercise me first.” He lolls his leg out toward Roy in anticipation of this morning’s stretches and Roy doesn’t even have the decency to look annoyed, just amused and inexplicably tender. </p><p>-- </p><p>After the first evening, they abandon all pretense of sleeping in separate rooms and Ed becomes a regular fixture in Roy’s bedroom. He leaves his own collection of amber pill bottles and an assortment of books piled on ‘his’ bedside and his toothbrush takes up residency next to Roy’s in the stupidly ornate little toothbrush holder he has next to the sink. Abandoned hair ties can be found on or under almost all the surfaces and certainly there’s least one in the bed itself at all times. It’s been almost a month and it’s been absolute bliss. Goodnight kisses and lazy early morning sex and the mingling of their scents in all the sheets. </p><p>They’re snuggled up together, Roy half heartedly trying to convince Ed that breakfast is worth getting up for and Ed arguing that if they wait another twenty minute it’ll be brunch and Ed’ll be able to justify eating two meals worth of food at once. </p><p>“I don’t think that’s how any of that works,” Roy comments, idly drawing patterns across Ed’s back and shoulders where Ed is sprawled on Roy’s front. </p><p>“Shows what you know,” Ed murmurs, mouth smooshed against Roy’s sternum. The telephone rings, startling them both and Roy’s reflex is to hold Ed against his chest which makes Ed’s heart do another series of backflips. </p><p>Roy strains to reach the telephone on his bedside without dislodging Ed or letting go of him and manages it somehow, speaking into the receiver, “Mustang residence... oh, good morning, Alphonse.” </p><p>Ed perks up, lifting his head from where he’s pillowed it on Roy’s chest. </p><p>“Yes, he’s right here... you know, funnily enough I was just saying to him, smaller meals throughout the day would be--” </p><p>“All right, that’s enough,” Ed hauls himself up on one elbow to wrench the phone away from Roy’s ear, “Stop making plans on my eating habits, what’s up, kid?” </p><p>“Brother! You know, brunch isn’t a license to--” </p><p>“I’ve already had this conversation today, Al, I’m not having it again. How are you? Where are you?” </p><p>“Youswell! And I’m great!” </p><p>“...Youswell? Already?” Disappointment niggles in Ed’s chest but he manages to keep it out of his voice by stifling it with guilt. </p><p>“Yes! We’re probably four or five days out from Central, Winry wants to stop in Resembool to pick up her tools and see Granny. We’ve got an appointment with Doctor Rossi on Friday to talk about your surgery. Winry and I were talking and we thought we might as well do it in Central, all the equipment is there and state of the art. Winry’s mechanic license clears her for the surgical theatre and I have enough education on my resume to qualify as her assistant so we might as well do it where the equipment is the best. We’ll have to go back to Resembool for your recovery and to build the new automail, but our lease was nearly up on the apartment anyways so it shouldn’t be too much hassle. What do you think?” </p><p>Ed knew this day was always going to come. And he’s wanted it, he wants Al to come home so he could see his perfect angel face and his dandelion sunburst hair and his button nose and know that no matter how much he’s been hurting it was all worth it because Al existed. But he also wanted the dream to keep on going. He wants to wake up bundled with Roy, wants to move around the house with him always within arms length and feel so damn safe and happy. The dream was so damn good that it felt <em>real</em>, like he could really keep on living like this could really go on having this and never have to give it up. But it wasn’t real. It was a fantasy. And if you want to keep on living, you have to wake up from your dreams. </p><p>“Sounds great,” Ed says, and means it. Because Al’s thought of everything and he’ll never be able to repay the universe for the kindness, the boon, that was Alphonse Elric, “Should we pick you up from the station?” </p><p>“Oh, I don’t want the General to have to take time out from the office.” </p><p>“He’d probably jump at the chance. And then Hawkeye would shoot him. In the foot, to prevent any more jumping and so he couldn’t run away.”</p><p>“Don’t give her any ideas,” Roy murmurs into the top of Ed’s head, stroking the length of his hair out so it fans over his back. Ed had put a tie in it last night, who knew where it had ended up. </p><p>“Well, regardless, I’ll call you the day of so you know when to expect us.” </p><p>“That’s great, Al.” </p><p>“I’m so excited to see you, Brother. I’ve missed you.” </p><p>Ed’s heart spasms as his chest tightens, “I’ve missed you, too.” </p><p> “Winry also misses you, but mostly she’s angry with you. Sorry.” Ed can hear some clambering in the background that sort of sounds like an irate mechanic gearhead shouting ‘tell him to go fuck himself’ </p><p>“Tell her I didn’t miss her, because she’s been cursing me out in my head for the last four months.”</p><p>“Tell her yourself. I don’t want to risk my neck back-talking to her on your behalf. Tell the General I say goodbye. We’ll see you soon. Love you, Brother!”</p><p>“I love you too, kid. See you soon.” </p><p>The line cuts out and Ed hands the receiver over to Roy to hang it back up. </p><p>“They’re on their way back then?” </p><p>“Yeah, they’ll be here by Friday.” </p><p>“That’s so soon. You must be excited,” Roy’s voice is painstakingly neutral and Ed wants to kick his legs and pull his hair out like a frustrated child. </p><p>“Yeah,” he says instead, “They’re gonna talk to Rossi, schedule the surgery here and then we’ll do recovery in Resembool.” </p><p>“I see,” Roy says and begins to move under Ed, so he can sit up. Ed shifts back, propping himself up on an elbow to watch as Roy sits up then gets out of the bed all together. He seems like he’s waiting for Ed to say something, but Ed has no idea what he’s supposed to say so it’s just oppressively silent as Roy finger combs his hair and puts on his slippers. </p><p>Finally, he asks, “When will you come back?” </p><p>“Come back?” </p><p>“From Resembool.” </p><p>“I...,” Ed falters. If Roy asked him to come back, he would. He wants to say it, say '<em>ask me to come back</em>' but that’s just prolonging the inevitable. This was always going to end. This was always just a dream. “I’m not coming back.” </p><p>“Oh,” Roy says after a painfully long moment, “I see.” He puts on his housecoat and offers Ed the thinnest of smiles, “How would you like your eggs?” </p><p>And that’s how it ends. Roy doesn’t fight it, though Ed will admit he seems a bit disappointed. In the days immediately after, he lingers in the corners of Ed’s vision, looking at him but not reaching out. He frowns more often and it takes him forever to fall asleep at night. Eventually though he buries that too behind a stoic, cordial mask. </p><p>Habitually unfair, Ed is angry and Roy must sense it because the distance between them grows wider and wider in the following days. They keep sleeping in Roy’s bed because neither of them possesses the language to ask if it’s best to sleep separately again. Ed wakes up surrounded by Roy’s smell and aching for the warm hand skirting up the length of his back and delving into the tangles of his hair. He’d gotten accustomed to it and now feels bereft without it. Physio is as much as they touch and Roy guides them through the positions without looking Ed in the eye. </p><p>Ed wants to snap, to demand to know if Roy was just putting up with him because the sex passed the time or made up for having to endure Ed eating all his food and reshelving his books out of order. It’s selfish, but he wants to know if it mattered half as much to Roy as it did to him. But he can’t bring himself to ask. At the start of this, he’d said he didn’t want to talk about it. He’d asked Roy not to make him. It didn’t seem fair to demand that Roy speak the words aloud if Ed wasn’t willing to. </p><p>And maybe he didn’t even feel that way. Maybe Ed had been reading between lines where no gaps actually existed. Maybe this had never been more than it was. Ed hadn’t wanted to talk about it in the first place because he was afraid to know. </p><p>Later in the week, Al calls and insists that Roy and Ed don’t need to meet him and Winry at the station. They’ll get a car and come pick Ed up from Roy’s and then go back to the Elric apartment from there. </p><p>“We’ve made the poor General suffer enough, don’t you think?” Al says, good natured and clearly kidding, during the call. </p><p>“Guess so,” Ed says, meaning so much more. </p><p>The smothering melancholia dissipates the moment Al knocks on the door. Roy is home already, having wormed his way out of the last hour of his workday so that he could be home to greet the Elric-Rockbell adventure duo. Ed races down the hall a little recklessly on his crutches and flings the door open. </p><p>“What the fuck is that?” He says, his eyes fixing on what appears to be a baby fucking leopard draped over Al’s shoulders. </p><p>“Hi, Brother!” Al chirps, holding his arms out for a hug that Ed immediately dives into, despite the irritated <em>mmrip</em> that the apex predator Al’s wearing as a scarf makes. They part when whiskers tickle Ed’s cheek and he rears his head up just in case it’s feeling peckish and meets a bright green stare. </p><p>“This is Freckles! Say hi, Freckles!” Freckles does not say hi, but it does blink at Ed very slowly. It’s probably fantasizing about eating Ed or at the very least chewing on his hair when he least expects it. </p><p>“Ling gave her to me as a goodbye present,” Al says, like that explains anything. </p><p>“I tried to talk him out of it, but it was love at first sight,” Winry chimes in, wedging her arm between the brothers -- at first Ed thinks she’s after her own hug, but then he realizes she’s checking out his temporary automail “This is nice. Not like, as nice as my stuff, but still pretty nice.” </p><p>“Hi Win, it’s so good to see you, how was your trip, oh yeah I’m doing fine, you know other than all the missing limbs, thanks for asking,” Ed deadpans. Freckles has jumped down off Al’s shoulders and Ed realizes she’s wearing a collar and leash like a fucking dog. That shit isn’t gonna fly, he’s not walking a jungle cat around Resembool on a leash people will think he’s even more insane than he actually is. </p><p>“I don’t feel bad for you, whatever happened was probably your fault.” Winry says, finally dragging Ed in for a hug strong enough that it actually starts to squeeze the air out of him. It says what she doesn’t, which is that she’s very glad he’s alive. </p><p>“It was the usual daring heroics, I’m afraid. He saved an orphan and everything, so there’ll be no rebuking him.” Roy’s been lingering in the doorway just behind him, it seems, and the fond smile he directs at Winry and Al makes Ed’s chest throb. </p><p>Freckles meows and dances around Roy’s ankles, curling her tail flirtatiously around Roy’s kneecap and Al has to spend a couple fumbling minutes detangling her leash from around Roy’s legs. </p><p>Roy invites the weary travelers in and offers to make them a cup of tea. Maybe Winry senses the tension between Ed and Roy because she takes over as social lubricant, chatting with Roy in the kitchen about Xing and the stylistic differences in the automail over there. Almost nothing made over there doubled as a sword, wasn’t that crazy? Al has that <em>look</em> he gets when he wants to ask Ed what’s wrong but knows he can’t just come out with it in mixed company.  He helps Ed upstairs to pack up whatever he’d brought over to Roy’s so many months ago. Ed had had the good sense to take whatever shit he still had scattered around Roy’s room and dump it on the guest bed before Al and Winry were due to arrive at the station. The bed is neatly made though and that seems to be enough to make Al raise an eyebrow at him. </p><p>“So how’ve things been?” Al asks and Ed ignores the caution in his voice. </p><p>“Fine.” Ed says, cramming clothes into his overnight bag. </p><p>“Just fine?” </p><p>“Al, if you’ve got something to say, just say it.” Ed is so fucking tired of dodging around shit, even though this has ostensibly been a hell of his own making. </p><p>“You just seem tense,” Al says, folding and then rolling one of Ed’s shirts that way he does because it’s supposedly more ‘efficient’ “I wondered if anything had happened. With the two of you.” </p><p>“Nothing happened.”</p><p>The worst thing about Al having his body back was that when Ed spouted some obviously untrue bullshit he gave the most scalthing, unimpressed, skeptical looks known to man. Even though it was the worst Ed loved them to the moon and back. </p><p>“Well,” Al says, folding more of Ed’s clothes and laying them on top of the crammed balls of fabric Ed had packed, “We can talk about nothing on the train home, can’t we?” </p><p>“Yeah, sure,” Ed says and it’s such a relief to have Al home again.</p><p>They call for another car and pack everyone’s bags into the trunk and Al shakes Roy’s hand on the stoop and thanks him for keeping a roof over Ed’s brillant head and makes Roy promise that he’ll let Al take him out for dinner the next time he’s in Central. Roy smiles goodnaturedly and says it would be his pleasure. Al and Winry give Roy and Ed a moment alone while they try to convince Freckles to get back into Al’s backpack for the short trip back to the apartment. </p><p>Roy looks at Ed and Ed looks at Roy and he wants so badly to say <em>something</em> that will make this ache go away. He wants Roy to be able to look him in the eye and just <em>know</em> that if Roy said just one word, Ed would be on the next train back as soon as Al was willing to let him out of sight again. He’s not brave enough to ask or offer, to bare his throat and let a stronger more seasoned animal nose at his jugular. </p><p>“I’d like to come visit at the hospital,” Roy says, “to make sure everything goes alright. Is that all right?” </p><p>“Sure,” Ed says, scuffing his boot against the bottom stare of Roy’s walkup, “Whatever you want.” </p><p>He looks up at when Roy doesn’t reply and catches a brief glimpse at his strange, strained look. </p><p>“Thank you,” Roy says, too quiet, and switches seamlessly to a thin smile and gentile expression, “I’ll see you then.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Ed says, absolutely hollow, “See you.” </p><p>During the car ride back to the apartment his skin prickle-burns all over with the need to be touched. Al and Winry must both sense it because they each drop a head on his shoulder until they pull up to the building. </p><p>--</p><p>The hospital never changes. Maybe that should be comforting, but it’s always given Ed a funny sort of time slip feeling. Had he ever even left? Was everything that happened outside the hospital a dream? Was his life just bookended with indefinite hospital visits? How was he supposed to know?</p><p>Winry and Al are busy prepping the OR and scrubbing up so once they get Ed all checked in, they’re gone. Ed doesn’t mind, he’s a bit shit at company right now. Al’s been giving him his space but Winry keeps staring at him and saying ‘what’ with varying degrees of urgency and annoyance. Freckles is really the only one that doesn’t seem to notice Ed’s piss poor attitude but Ed suspects she’s just in it for the body heat. No animals are allowed in the hospital anyways so it’s just Ed kicking it in his hospital room, wearing a stupid bluegreen gown that goes too far past his knees and waiting for the orderly to come wheel him down. </p><p>He looks up from the newspaper he’s been leafing through aimlessly when there’s a knock at his door. </p><p>“Oh hey,” he says to Kyrie. They beam at him. </p><p>“How the hell are you?” They ask, scraping a chair up to Ed’s beside, “Let me guess, ready to get the fuck out of here?” </p><p>“How’d you guess?” Ed slumps back against the pile of rubberized pillows propping him up. At least he feels less shitty than the last time he’d been here. </p><p>“Your brother and mechanic are doing the surgery? That’s awesome.” </p><p>“Can’t think of two people I trust more.” </p><p>They chat for a while, about what Ed’s recovery will look like out in Resembool, how long it’ll be for the new port to heal completely and he’ll be able to start wearing the leg automail. Ed promises to work on ‘mailless physio too to keep his strength up in his flesh limbs. </p><p>There’s another rap on the door and Ed looks up, expecting an orderly. But it’s Roy, looking a little out of place. </p><p>“Your brother sent me,” he says when their eyes meet, “There’s been a scheduling conflict but they’re sorting it out. It shouldn’t take much longer.” Roy’s eyes flick over to Kyrie, nodding briefly in greeting, before looking back at Ed, “He wanted to be sure you weren’t thinking of skipping out again.” </p><p>“There’s a leg in it for me this time, it’s worth the wait.” Ed says, straining to sit up a little straighter. “Thanks though.” </p><p>“Of course, I was just happy to have been of use.” </p><p>Kyrie looks between them as silence overtakes the room and Ed works spit around his teeth. Roy squares his shoulders and smiles politely. </p><p>“Well, I’ll see you in the theatre. I’d hate to have subpar seats. Kyrie, lovely to see you.” </p><p>“You too, Sir,” Kyrie says and waves Roy off as he ducks out of the room. </p><p>They wait a minute before turning a pointedly raised eyebrow on Ed. </p><p>“What?” Ed says, hackles already rising. </p><p>“Trouble in paradise?” </p><p>“What are you talking about?” Ed fidgets with the scratchy wool blanket a nurse draped over him earlier. </p><p>“I just mean, you know, couples like you guys go through ups and downs but--” </p><p>“We’re not together.” Ed says, fire catching in his blood and heating his face and neck so quickly he starts to sweat. </p><p>Kyrie stares at him for ten silent, stunned seconds before they <em>shout</em>, “What?!” </p><p>“Keep your voice down, this is a hospital,” Ed hisses, repeating a reprimand that he’s received verbatim more than two dozen times. </p><p>“Seriously?” Kyrie stage whispers back, like a sudden reduction in noise will prevent a nurse from coming down the hall and glaring at them. It won’t, Ed has tried it “<em>Seriously</em>?” </p><p>Ed doesn’t know what to say so he just shrugs. Kyrie shakes their head. </p><p>“Damn, I knew you were crazy and kinda stupid, but isn’t he in government? This country really doesn’t have any damn hope.” </p><p>“Tell me about it,” is all Ed can think to say. </p><p>A while later, the orderly finally comes and Kyrie and Ed exchange goodbyes. They make Ed promise he’ll come show them his new automail the next time he’s in town and he agrees, failing to mention it would probably take a pack of wild dogs dragging him through the streets to get him back here so long as Roy Mustang is a permanent fixture. </p><p>In the OR about a dozen people are moving around, getting machines and little tables with scalpels ready. Winry and Al are covered in minty green scrubs all the way up to their eyeballs and topped with matching caps. Ed can see Al smiling behind his mask. </p><p>“Ready, Brother?” He asks </p><p>“As I’ll ever be,” he says as they transfer him from the hospital bed to the operating table, “See you on the other side, yeah? Don’t let Winry do anything crazy with my guts.” </p><p>Winry brandishes a scalpel at him, “Don’t get cute, Elric, your life is in my hands.” </p><p>“When isn’t it,” Ed retorts and Al releases a long suffering sigh. </p><p>The anesthesiologist comes over to affix a mask over Ed’s mouth and nose and instructs him to breathe deep and count backwards from ten. </p><p>Ed looks at Al where he’s standing next to the table and smiles at him, “Love you.” </p><p>“Love you too, Brother,” Al says, taking Ed’s flesh hand in his gloved one. </p><p>Ed looks up and in the operating theatre window he can see Roy. Their eyes lock and Ed takes a deep breath, falling back into blackness. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>no one is allowed to criticize me for how sad and frustrating this chapter is because I gave Al an extremely cute kitty, sorry folks i don't make the rules :3c</p><p>ps freckles is a bengal! baby cutie spotted kitty who is small, blonde and rambunctious— I wonder who Al was reminded of...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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